


Xenophobia

by BlueNeutrino



Category: Alien: Isolation (Video Game), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Gen, Young Dean Winchester, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-12-03 22:19:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 50,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11541579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueNeutrino/pseuds/BlueNeutrino
Summary: It's been ten years since the commercial starship Nostromo vanished. Among the crew was Third Officer Mary Winchester, who left behind a husband and two young sons. When Weyland-Yutani representative, Castiel, shows up at John's engineering workshop offering the chance to get answers as to what happened to his wife, John accepts the invitation for him, Sam and Dean to travel to Sevastopol space station where the flight recorder from the Nostromo is being held. What he doesn't know is he's walking into the exact same danger Mary faced ten years before.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU fusion fic between Supernatural and the video game Alien: Isolation. Knowledge of the game is not necessary to follow the story, but familiarity with the first Alien movie helps.
> 
> Written for the 2016 SPN Megabang. Huge thanks to stormbrite for her wonderful artwork and video! Masterpost here - stormbrite.livejournal.com/30766.html
> 
> Thanks also to archofimagine and kittycat-cas on Tumblr for their beta work, though unfortunately they've only been able to do the first couple of chapters. I'll admit that is partly my fault for taking so long to get this thing written, but I hope I've caught most of my mistakes in the later chapters and will continue to look for a second pair of eyes to proof read (with any luck before most readers reach that point of the story).
> 
> UPDATE: Huge, huge thanks to silver9mm who has done an incredible job of betaing the entire story in just three days. She's been a massive help and I'm hoping to roll out the changes over the next few days.
> 
> While there are undoubtedly discrepancies in this with timelines matching up for different characters or the stated journey times being reasonable, the nature of special relativity, sub lightspeed travel, hypersleep, and how the source material ignores time dilation makes trying to give an accurate representation of time in science fiction near impossible. I hope you can overlook these flaws and accept my rather hand-wavey explanation for the sake of the story, which I don't believe suffers too much for it.

_Final report of the commercial starship, Nostromo. Third officer reporting. The other members of the crew, Turner, Harvelle, Creaser, Murphy and Captain Singer are dead. Cargo and ship destroyed. I should reach the frontier in about six weeks. With a little luck, the network will pick me up._

_This is Mary Winchester, last survivor of the Nostromo, signing off._

 

* * *

  

* * *

 

 _May 2132_ _  
_ _Colonial Titan_

“John Winchester.”

It maybe takes a few tries before John hears it. He turns off the blowtorch, pulls back his visor, and looks up.

The man standing there looks out of place in the workshop. An oversized tan trench coat sits awkwardly on his frame, layered over a cheap suit and blue tie. Just formal enough that John knows he works for the company. Not fancy enough for him to be a big shot. John eyes him cautiously. “Who’s asking?”

“My name is Castiel. I work for the company.”

“I figured. What’s this about?”

Creases form at the corners of Castiel’s blue eyes as he studies the dishevelled man in front of him. The blowtorch is still clutched loosely in John’s hand as he leans against the unit he was working on, overalls grimy, face glistening with sweat. They aren’t alone in the workshop, the sounds of sawing coming from one of the workbenches in the back, but Castiel ignores it. His business is with John. “Weyland-Yutani have an assignment for you.”

That gets a curious look. “They sending agents in person now? Electronic posting usually works just fine.”

“We thought it best on this occasion to reach out to you face to face. The assignment we’d like to offer you is of a… _ personal  _ nature.”

There’s a pause. The word  _ personal  _ sets off alarm bells in John’s head, hope tempered with caution sending a sudden surge of adrenaline coursing through his system. There’s only one thing it could mean.

In the back of the workshop, the sound of sawing goes silent. 

John turns away from Castiel, who watches impassively as he fixes his gaze on the figure in the back. “Dean, I think it’s time you went to collect your brother from school.”

The man – or rather, boy, no older than eighteen – in the back, scowls. “He doesn’t finish for another hour.”  

“Then call in at the store on the way. Buy him candy.”

“He’s fourteen, Dad. Not four.”

“Dean.” John’s voice takes on an edge. “Get.” 

Tension thickens the air for a moment before Dean’s shoulders slump. His eyes remain fixed on Castiel with an intense, almost desperate curiosity as he walks away from the bench, still scowling, then leaves the workshop to change out of his overalls.

Satisfied that his son is out of earshot, John turns back to Castiel. “Is this about her?”

In answer, he receives a solemn, slow nod. “Yes. The flight recorder on the  _ Nostromo  _ has been recovered. A commercial ship, the  _ Anesidora _ , picked it up in Zeta Reticuli.”

John’s knees suddenly feel weak. He steps away from the cryosleep unit he’s assembling and sets down the blowtorch as he draws a deep breath. It’s the news he’d dreamed of hearing for ten years, but now that it’s actually here, he doesn’t know how to feel. Mostly terrified. “So are you…were you able to find out what happened?” The words struggle to come out.

“The contents of the recorder haven’t yet been decrypted. The black box is being held at a local supply depot, Sevastopol station, awaiting retrieval. Myself and another company exec will be travelling out to collect it. I’m here to offer you the opportunity to join us.”

John would be jumping at the opportunity, if there weren’t two reasons that give him pause.

Castiel notices his hesitation. “Your sons, Dean and Sam, have also been granted clearance to travel with you.”

“I don’t know…” He doesn’t. They’re both old enough to remember their mother’s disappearance, but John doesn’t know if it’s a wound he should be re-opening just yet. “I don’t know if I should drag them all the way out there before we even know what happened.”

“As their father, that is your decision,” Castiel says impassively. “but the company requires your response by noon tomorrow. The consignment ships out in two days.”

John nods. “I’ll be there. I’ll let you know about my sons. Do you have a means for me to contact you?”

“Of course.” Castiel reaches into the inside pocket of his overcoat and produces a card, holes punched in a barcode down the side. “My comms address.”

John nods his acknowledgement and pockets it, but by the time he looks up again, Castiel has already turned away and is leaving without saying another word. Taken by surprise, John blinks, but there isn’t time to dwell on the peculiarity of it with other things on his mind. He needs to have a conversation with his boys.

 

* * *

“They found Mom?” 

The pure hope in Dean’s voice, full of innocence and naivety belonging much more to the boy of ten years ago than the man he is now, is like a knife in John’s gut. “That isn’t what they said, Dean.”

“They found something though?” Sam puts in, eyes bright, hanging on to every word his father says. “They’ll be able to tell us what happened?”

“That’s what they hope, yes.”

“So why can’t we go with you?”

John sighs. He hates to do this to them, but he’s always found it hard to know whether he’s making the right choices as a parent. Ever since losing Mary. But if he’s going to make a choice, it’s better to make it than to dither. “Boys, it will be a long journey and I don’t know what could be waiting for us on Sevastopol. Sam, you have school, and Dean, I need you to run the workshop. I don’t want this to be a distraction.”

“Distraction? This is Mom!” His youngest seems to be pleading, while his eldest just seems confused. And hurt. “How are we meant to go on not knowing what happened when you know but can’t tell us?”

“As soon as I know, Sam, you and Dean will be the first ones I tell.”

“You’ve just said it’s a long way away! We could be waiting months.”

“I also said it could be dangerous. I’m not putting you in danger.”

“Dad.” It’s Dean who interjects this time, more diplomatically. “It’s a civilian space station. Not a military outpost. What are you so afraid of?”

John sighs again. He knew this was going to be a difficult argument to win, but he’s becoming less sure he  _ wants  _ to win it. “Alright,” he says, feeling his resolve crumbling. “You can come. I’ll let Castiel know.” If he’s honest with himself, John knows he wants his sons with him when he finds out what happened to Mary for his own good as much as theirs. The thought of finally knowing the truth after all this time sends terror flooding through him, but the looks of hope on two faces so much like hers reminds him what it’s all for. 

 

* * *

This isn’t the brothers’ first spaceflight. Not even in single figures, if they’re counting. Not that they really can. Ever since John retired from the Colonial Marines to take up an engineering post with Weyland-Yutani, they’ve been dragged more places in the galaxy than they can keep track of. The workshop on Titan is the closest they’ve been to Earth in years, intended to be a more permanent settlement for Sam now that he’s started high school, but Dean doesn’t think it’ll last. Permanence isn’t something John Winchester does well. 

“Officer Winchester,” a man greets their father as he walks ahead of the boys, exchanging a brief but stiff handshake before they ascend the docking ramp. His eyes flit towards the brothers. “And Dean and Sam. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Castiel.”

“Yeah, Dad mentioned you,” Dean says, taking in the trench coat and suit. “What are you? Company accountant?”

“I work for Weyland-Yutani,” is all Castiel says, scowling just slightly before moving on. “My colleague, Anna Milton, will be accompanying us. If we proceed on board, we can meet with her and Captain Mills.”

They do, moving through to the bridge of the small courier ship where two women and a man are waiting. One of the women is in her forties, with short cropped brown hair and a no-nonsense look, while the other is slight, red-headed, and looking very skittish. It takes five seconds for John to peg her as a nervous flyer. 

“Castiel,” the older woman says as they approach. “And Winchesters. I’m Jody Mills, captain of the  _ Torrens. _ ” John gets a handshake, and then to Sam and Dean’s surprise, she offers each of them one too. She turns to the man beside her, brown haired and skinny enough that he looks almost swamped by his flight suit. “This is my navigational officer, Garth Fitzgerald. We’ll be piloting you to Sevastopol. Take off will be in ten minutes, if you want to head through to the canteen. Hypersleep bunks are adjacent and will be ready just after departure.”

Castiel nods, barely pausing as he leads them the rest of the way inside the ship. It’s not a big vessel, but it’s spacious enough. John takes a seat at the canteen table, watching as his boys continue looking round. Dean in particular has always loved spaceships, fascinated by both the engineering and the artistry in their construction, with a particular love for vintage models. No wonder he made such a good apprentice.

“You must be Anna,” John says as the redhead sits down opposite him.

She nods. “Yeah.” A queasy look crosses her face. “Sorry, you’ll have to excuse me. I’m not good with flying.”

“Why do you work for Weyland-Yutani if you don’t like flying?”

It perhaps comes out ruder harsher than intended, and she gives him a withering look. “I’m a lawyer.”

“What’s a lawyer doing on a retrieval mission?” It occurs to him he’s probably being rude, or pushy, but that answer genuinely gives him pause. If he’s here to uncover the truth about what happened to his wife, John wants to know who he’s sharing it with.

Anna eyes him cautiously. “The loss of the  _ Nostromo  _ cost Weyland-Yutani a lot of money. I’m here to protect company interests.”

The answer is evasive and vague, and John doesn’t consider it for as long as he perhaps should before they feel the rumbling of the ship’s engines through the floor. Captain Mills’ voice sounds over the intercom. “Passengers, we’ve commenced take off and are awaiting clearance to leave orbit. You’re welcome to get changed and enter the cryosleep chambers. They’ll go online in five minutes and are scheduled to wake you after our journey time of sixty days.”

John can feel they’ve cleared the ground and are rapidly gaining altitude. He excuses himself from the table. “Well, best get to it, then.” He finds that he’s glad not to have to make conversation anymore, as he rounds up his sons and heads off in search of the locker room.

Sixty days would normally be a long time, but in cryosleep, John knows it will pass in a heartbeat. Hopefully when he next wakes, there will be answers waiting for him. 

 

* * *

Sam is first to wake. He always is on journeys like this: something about a child’s metabolism being faster that allows him to shake off the cryo effects more readily. Dean will be next, if experience is anything to go by. Sam always loves that time: the few minutes they get together where it’s just the two of them, alone in space where they may as well be the only two human beings in the world universe. 

For now though, it’s only him. 

He yawns and stretches as he eases himself out of the cryopod, its glass screen sliding back to give him room. The ship’s atmosphere is warm on his bare skin, though he can already feel the dryness from the elevated oxygen cracking his lips and cheeks. He heads to the locker room, finds some moisturiser and soap, and takes a shower.

When he’s done, Sam pulls on the t-shirt and cargo pants he’d brought with him and makes himself some toast. Then, he sits himself down by his brother’s pod and waits.

It would almost be creepy watching Dean like this, unconscious, his body rebooting after a long shutdown, but it’s become a regular thing between them. Every time the gap between Sam and Dean waking gets larger Sam teases him, telling him he’s getting old, but usually it just depends how exhausted they were prior to getting in the pods. Sam hasn’t lost sight of how fucked up it is that this has even become a regular thing.

In truth, Sam and Dean Winchester were anomalies. Company employees weren’t supposed to have children while on active long-haul postings. They especially weren’t supposed to drag their children around the galaxy on assignments, but John’s military commendations and the company’s liability over  _ Nostromo _ had afforded him a lot of leniency. Whether that had been to Sam and Dean’s benefit or detriment was still unclear. 

“Twenty-one minutes,” Sam says when Dean’s screen finally slides back and he yawns. “You’re getting old, jerk. Took you fifteen last time.”

“You’re old, bitch,” Dean huffs, wiping sleep from his eyes. “At least I’m not a midget.”

“One day I’ll catch you up.”

“You’d better not.” Dean sits up straight in the pod and spies the plate Sam’s holding in his hand. “Breakfast?”

“Toast.” Sam holds it out to him and Dean accepts it gratefully. He takes a bite, then seems to think better of it. “Actually, best not. I’ve been renovating these things for two weeks. You wouldn’t believe how much damage crumbs in the filter does to the system.” He gets up and goes to sit at the dining table instead, searching for a bathrobe while he’s at it. Sam joins him. 

There’s a minute or two of silence while Sam lets Dean eat, then he says, “Isn’t it weird?”

Dean swallows a mouthful and looks at him. “What?”

“This. That we’re here. We’re finally gonna find out what happened.”

Dean’s jaw clenches and he grunts. “Yeah.”

“You...don’t seem happy.”

“What’s there to be happy about? Yeah, maybe we’ll find out what happened. Maybe. Finally know once and for all if Mom’s dead or abandoned us. Sure, let’s celebrate.” He resumes eating, teeth tearing at the toast with more aggression than before.

Sam watches him, expression a combination of sympathetic and defensive. “Mom didn’t abandon us.”

“So she’s dead then,” Dean snaps. “What’s the difference anyway? Always off on long haul flights for months at a time, barely seeing us for two weeks a year. She may as well have abandoned us.” He finishes the food and shoves the plate to one side with a scowl.

“It wasn’t her fault!” Sam retaliates. “It was the company; she didn’t have a choice. She wasn’t even supposed to have kids. She could have lost her job just for having us.”

“I wish she had. At least then she’d still be alive.”

The air has turned tense. It’s not the usual easy understanding they share in the moments after cryosleep, and Sam finds himself wishing he never spoke.

The tension is broken by a sleepy voice greeting them. “Morning, boys.”

They both turn to see Anna in a bathrobe emerging from the cryosleep chamber. She looks mellow but unsettled, still not at ease with the flight.

“Morning,” Sam replies, while Dean grunts, “Afternoon. We’re on local time.”

Anna frowns. “Everything alright? I heard raised voices.”

“Yeah, we’re good,” Dean says dismissively. He’s being rude and he knows he’ll feel bad later, but right now he’s not in the mood.

“Oh. Well, I was just gonna go take a shower. Thank god we’re almost there, don’t think I could take much more of this.”

She turns to head through to the bathroom, and hasn’t quite finished rounding the door before she lets the bathrobe slip from her shoulders. Both boys stare.

It’s just the briefest flash of skin before they turn to each other, argument forgotten. “Lawyers should not be that hot,” Dean says.

Sam pouts. “I want to be a lawyer.”

“Like I said, lawyers should not be that hot.”

It isn’t long before Castiel joins them. The company rep looks dour and serious when he arrives ready-dressed in the canteen, responding to Dean’s sarcastic, “Morning, sunshine,” with, “It’s afternoon, local time.”

Sam can’t help but laugh.

Just a few minutes later, Captain Mills and Officer Fitzgerald arrive in the room, followed closely by John. John’s first words are to ask if the boys behaved, drawing an eyeroll from them both, while Jody and Garth go to prepare the ship for docking. The brothers seem to be on good terms again by the time an announcement goes over the ship’s intercom.

“Arriving at Sevastopol station. All personnel report to the bridge.”

Garth has taken up the pilot’s seat while Jody is waiting at the console when they arrive. “I hope you all had a restful sleep,” she greets.

“The hypersleep chambers are in excellent order,” Castiel says. “The  _ Torrens  _ seems to be in remarkable condition for its age. The same model as the  _ Nostromo,  _ I believe.”

“You should have seen her when I bought her,” Captain Mills replies flippantly. “Now, we’re coming up on the station. Marshal Henriksen is your contact, correct?”

Castiel nods in affirmation.

“Right. I’ll hail Sevastopol and get us permission to dock. Fitzgerald, switch to screens.”

“Switching now.” The navigator turns a dial on his console, and the displays surrounding the bridge change from text and co-ordinates to visuals of the route up ahead.

Immediately, it becomes clear something’s wrong.

As the three-towered industrial shape of Sevastopol comes into view, every pair of eyes are is drawn to the debris drifting around the nearest corner at the station’s base.

John’s brow furrows, apprehensively noting the warped and misaligned structures on its port side. “Is that damage?”

Captain Mills frowns and studies the image closer. “That’s the docking port. I can’t bring the  _ Torrens  _ into that.”

“Now what?” Anna mutters quietly while the captain reaches for the radio.

“Sevastopol, this is Jody Mills, captain of the courier ship  _ Torrens.  _ We are transporting five passengers from Weyland-Yutani, requesting contact with Marshal Henriksen.” There’s a pause, drawn out as no reply comes. “Sevastopol, do you read me?”

Static crackles on the channel, then a voice, broken and distorted, comes through.  _ “… _ Torrens _ , this is Henriksen, Colonial Marshal...docking port is compromised...maintain orbit…” _ The rest is lost to static.

Jody’s expression is grim as she shuts off the channel and steps back. “Looks like the station’s comms are screwed.” 

She turns to the others, as if asking what they want to do now. A suggestion from Castiel comes quickly. “An EVA is still possible.”

There’s a moment’s consideration, then John nods. “If you get us close enough we can spacewalk. Where do you keep the suits?”

 


	2. Chapter 2

Dean reaches for the EVA suit in the cabinet door by the airlock, only for his hand to be swatted away by John. “I don’t think so, boys. You’re both staying here. Go back and wait with Officer Fitzgerald on the bridge.”

A torn look crosses Dean’s face. “Dad!” He knows John has his reasons, but this is about Mom.

Sam looks equally aghast. “You’re not just leaving us here.”

“Look boys, I let you come this far,” John says sternly, “but you saw the state the station’s in. I’m not taking you on board that. You can wait here. I’ll hail you as soon as I know anything.”

That gets pouts from them both. “I’m not a kid, Dad,” Dean protests, only to be swiftly shut down.

“As far as I’m concerned, yes, you are. And you’re going to stay here and watch your brother.”

“Maybe I should stay too?” Anna interjects. She looks even more nervous about the spacewalk than about flying. “I mean, there’s a liability issue. Company insurance requires minors to be supervised by a Weyland-Yutani employee, or we’re neglecting duty of care.”

“Milton.” Castiel cuts her off. “You’re required to board. We need you present at the handover.”

“Fine,” says John, “they’ll stay with Captain Mills.”

The captain, for her part, seems fine with that. “I’ll keep a close eye on them.”

Anna bites her lip. “Captain Mills isn’t a company employee.”

“They have to come with us.” Castiel says the bottom line she’d been avoiding.

John fixes him with a hard stare. “I’m their parent. You don’t get to overrule me.”

“No,” Dean says suddenly, “but I do. I’m eighteen, Dad. Not a minor. I’m going.”

The unexpected display of defiance shocks John. He glances from Dean to his youngest, who’s wearing a look that clearly says, “No way am I staying here on my own.”

John heaves a sigh of frustration. “If that’s the way it’s going to be,” he growls, “I hope you both know how much your mother would have hated this.” Their mother is the  _ only _ reason they’re getting away with this, John tells himself. But there’s still part of him that wants them there as much as they do. “Go on, get dressed.”

They both jump to the instruction and start pulling on EVA suits.

Sam’s doesn’t fit. Even using the adjustment modules it’s still too big, bunching up around his knees and elbows as he tries to push his limbs to the ends. Dean chuckles. “Give it a few years, and you might actually get out of the junior size.”

Sam shoots him a scowl. “They’re meant to be one size fits all. Anna’s not that much taller than me.”

“Anna’s not a kid.”

“Neither am I!”

“Careful, Dean,” John chides. “He’s one growth spurt away from overtaking you. Now, both of you, get your helmets on.” 

They do, beating Anna to it, who looks positively green. “You’re gonna be fine, kid,” John tells her before pulling his own helmet on, and she nods and does the same. 

“Station comms are down, so I’ve fitted a signal booster to Castiel’s radio. Should allow you to stay in contact,” Jody says as they proceed to the airlock and she shuts the hatch behind them. “I can keep the  _ Torrens  _ in transit for 24 hours, so try not to be late back. Stay safe out there.”

A light by the outer hatch turns red as the airlock primes. “I’ll go first,” Castiel says, voice tinny over the radio as he positions himself by the door. “Anna.” She nods nervously as she lines up behind him.

“Sam, Dean, in front of me,” John barks. “Sam, you’re next. Dean, watch him.”

“Yes, sir.” Dean’s eyes are trained on his little brother like a hawk as they line up, then Jody’s announcement comes over the intercom. “I’m going to open the airlock. There’s an entrance hatch directly opposite; Fitzgerald has already sent out the anchor line. That should be enough to get you to it.”

There’s a hiss as the compartment depressurises, then the red light by the door turns to green. “Ready?” Castiel says, and the hatch opens.

There’s no sound, but they all feel the lift as the artificial gravity drops away, and then five pairs of feet leave the floor. Castiel braces himself on the exit port, eyeing up the magnetic anchor attached to the station’s hull with its cable running back to the  _ Torrens.  _ It’s been well aimed, grapple attached only a meter or so from the airlock hatch. That should work.

Castiel reaches up the hook from his belt to clip to the cable, and leaps from the door.

Anna’s up next, hesitating briefly before a “Come on,” from Castiel prompts her to follow. Sam doesn’t hesitate at all. Dean has to grab his arm to hold him back while he checks his brother’s clip is secured to the cable, then lets him go. Sam pulls himself a few meters before Dean follows, and soon all five of them are inching their way towards Sevastopol.

It’s not Sam and Dean’s first EVA, either. They’ve done it more than a few times on inter-ship transfers, and Dean’s trained on in-flight exterior engineering jobs. They’d be making fast progress if it weren’t for Anna. Her nervous breathing is audible on the radio. “You’re doing fine,” John encourages, and she makes as if to look back before thinking better of it.

“If I just don’t look at all the open space, I’m okay.”

“Just focus on Castiel,” John says, and the exec up ahead pauses to wait for her.

Anna takes a deep breath, pulls herself another meter forward, and then it happens.

There’s no sound to warn them. The lack of air in space wouldn’t permit it, but the scattering of green sunlight off of metal structures draws Castiel’s eye. A vibration rumbles along the EVA line. “Milton!” he cries out in warning.

There’s nothing to be done. A huge support rig from the damaged side of the station has come loose and begun to tumble out of orbit: tonnes upon tonnes of metal hurtling towards them.

Anna screams. The rig collides with the cable ahead of Castiel, the line snaps, and then the world turns upside down.

Everything happens in an instant. The momentum from the structure sends all of them hurtling, and Dean’s eyes lock onto Sam. His hand reaches desperately for his brother’s, grasping on for just a second before Sam slips through his fingers and they’re both sent spinning in different directions.

“Sam!” Dean cries out, yells, the static from the radio roaring in his ears. He can’t see, the world a blur while panic floods his veins, and then his back collides with something hard. There’s barely time for him to reorient himself before he feels someone grasping at his shoulder, and then he realises he’s landed on the side of the station. An airlock hatch slides open beneath him before the hand shoves him through, and another suited figure drifts in behind him.

“…Sam? Cast…anybody, come in,” he hears John’s voice over the radio, before the hatch slides shut again and they both drop to the floor.

Dean's limbs feel weak. The few seconds it takes for the airlock to repressurise aren’t enough for him to recover, and he find himself being shook roughly before the image of his father pulling off his helmet steps into view.

Still trembling, Dean sits up and does the same. His entire body is buzzing with a horrible combination of shock and dread. “Sam…”

“Isn’t answering his radio,” John says. When Dean looks up at him, his eyes are full of fury. “I told you both to stay on board the  _ Torrens.  _ Don’t you  _ ever  _ defy me again, boy.”

All Dean can do is nod. “I let go of him,” he whispers, voice shaking. “I had hold of his hand, and I let him go…”

There’s a beat. John’s nostrils flare, then he says, “You did not just say that to me.” It’s all he can do to stay in control. He can’t afford to lose it. Can’t afford to blame Dean.

“What happens now?” Dean’s voice is still shaking, and he suddenly sounds like the eight-year-old who lost his mother all over again.

“He’s with Castiel and Milton. We’ll find him.”

“What if he’s not? What if he’s…”

“I said we’ll find him,” John snaps. “Now get up. We need to find a way to communications and get back in contact with Mills.”

Another moment passes in a daze, then Dean nods. He picks himself up and climbs out of the spacesuit, mimicking John before his father opens the inner hatch door and they both venture into Sevastopol.

The first thing Dean notices is the smell of burning. It’s not engine fuel, but gasoline maybe, or something that once powered a damaged generator as the whole hallway is bathed in the dim red of emergency lights. A tinny, automated voice is announcing something over the intercom.  _ “Please standby while orbital stabilisers recalibrate.” _ No indication of what destabilised them in the first place.

The hallways have the labyrinthine, claustrophobic feel typical of outdated space stations: all mesh floors and industrial metal walls, with exposed pipes and low ceilings cutting into the cramped space. Something’s on fire not too far from where they boarded—maybe a gas leak, though it’s hard to tell—blocking off the way forward. John’s eyes glance around, more than familiar with this type of design. “Here,” he says, crossing to an air vent halfway up the wall and opening it with a manual button press before climbing inside. “Supply depot like Sevastopol, lower decks are usually large scale storage. We boarded low. If we can find an elevator that should take us closer to comms.”

Dean follows behind him, squinting through the dark. The hallways may feel like tight spaces but the vents compensate by being relatively roomy. It accommodates both men in a low crouch before they reach the far side and drop down again. 

They appear to have emerged on a warehouse deck, looking down at a vast space sparsely filled with shipping containers. From their position beside the overseer’s cabin, aside from the meagre stock, it appears deserted. Two catwalks span the length of the room while a ladder leads down to the warehouse floor. John ventures forth into the glass-screened control booth and surveys the console.

“Where is everybody?” Dean mutters nervously as he hangs just a couple of paces back. This doesn’t feel right. That much had been obvious from the start, but the feeling is growing by the minute.

“I don’t know.” John’s voice is full of apprehension as he turns away from the console. “Power’s off. Keep an eye out for an active comms station, Dean, or something that might let us make contact with someone.”

“Yes, sir.” 

They back out of the cabin and John heads for the ladder to drop down to the lower level, and Dean obediently follows. The loading doors, and hopefully a way forward, are at the far end of the room. There’s a brief worry for the both of them that the exit is on the same dead circuit as the computer, but as they approach, the doors slide open with an hydraulic hiss.

Heading beyond takes them through to a hub: a circular room with five exits leading off—one of them an elevator—and a computer terminal in the middle. John goes straight for the computer while Dean hits the elevator call button: dead.

“Elevator’s offline,” he reports back as he joins his father by the terminal. John nods grimly. That doesn’t surprise him.

“Computer’s on, but the secure access server isn’t. I can’t log in here.” He puts the WY access card he’d been trying back into his pocket. “We need to keep moving.”

John turns to the signs above the exits. Square panels with an array of icons Dean’s not entirely sure how to interpret point the way to various destinations. He at least understands the icon of a telephone. 

“Communications is this way,” John says. “Let’s go, Dean.”

They head on through the door opposite the elevator, passing through another bare storage unit. Their footsteps are abnormally loud in the dark, and Dean feels a creeping sense of unease at how deserted the station is.

Something sounds above them.

Both of them pause. John looks up to the catwalks overhead, suddenly tensed as he peers into the darkness, and instinctively shifts his weight closer to Dean. “Hello?”

No response. John shouts again. “Who’s there?”

There comes the sound of footsteps retreating, followed by the soft hiss of a hydraulic doorway opening somewhere on the upper level, then silence.

Dean’s suddenly aware of how hard his heart is pounding. “Dad?” His voice is a whisper. He isn’t even sure what he’s looking for; at this point John can’t give much by way of reassurance.

His father looks at him, expression grim. “We keep going. Come on.”

They follow the route pointing in the direction of comms. It takes them through several more dimly lit corridors before arriving at a series of offices, glass windows looking out onto the storage floors. 

John sees it first through the glass, but not by enough to give any warning.

Dean gasps.

There’s a body on the floor. Best as John can tell, it was death by blunt force trauma: blood’s pooling beneath his skull while a crowbar is abandoned on the floor. It’s far from the bloodiest death John’s encountered—a decade in the Colonial Marines had seen to that—but he can’t say the same for Dean. His son looks pale, shocked.

John clasps him by the shoulders. “Dean, don’t look. I’m gonna go through and find out what happened.”

Dean swallows and tries to regain his composure. “Dad, I’m fine. I’ll go with you,” he says after a moment. “There’s a computer in the office.”

So he isn’t in shock enough to have missed that. There’s a pause, then John nods. He’d rather keep Dean close. “Alright. But don’t touch anything. Let me handle things.”

The lock’s broken on the door as they push it open. Dean hangs back by the computer terminal while John checks the body. There’s a Seegson personnel ID tag clipped to his shirt: S. Brady. Manager of one of the supply units, apparently. No sign of who did this.

John briefly searches the body, taking Brady’s tool belt but finding nothing else useful, then turns to pick up the crowbar. It’s a sturdy weight, and clearly lethal in the right hands. For a moment he considers hanging onto it, then crosses back to Dean. “Here.” John holds the steel bar out to his son. He knows which of them is most vulnerable. “There’s someone hostile out there. We might be needing this.”

Dean nods obediently as he accepts it. He’s had enough self-defence training from his father to know how to use it well, but that doesn’t stop the dread pooling in the pit of his stomach.

John crosses to the computer and pushes his ID card into the slot. This time, the login works. It takes him through to a directory of messages and shared and personal files.

He draws up the most recent bulletin:  _ Sevastopol decommissioning. _

It’s an announcement from the corporation that owns the station, Seegson, thanking its employees ahead of the station’s decommissioning. It draws a raised eyebrow that Castiel had never mentioned Sevastopol’s status before bringing them out here. From scanning the other messages, as far as John can tell, the process had begun weeks ago.

There are messages in the personal file sent by Brady discussing spoils and assets. The latest messages are to someone called Jervis, the tone becoming urgent and confrontational as they talk about hoarding supplies before Marshal Henriksen locks the station down.

John clenches his jaw and looks up at Dean. “Station’s in lockdown,” he reports. “Began decommissioning weeks ago. Apparently, some of the staff are taking that as a free-for-all, and they aren’t willing to share.” Unintentionally, he glances over at the body again. “We need to keep an eye out for looters.”

Dean swallows nervously and nods. John checks the rest of the office for anything useful before moving on again, taking a first aid kit which he adds to the tool belt, then they continue in the direction of comms. The next door leads through to a dimly lit room filled with rows of crates stacked about ten feet high, a few gaps left where they’ve been overturned and raided. It looks like the looting was done in a hurry, with several items left behind. John checks through the remains, picking up a couple of flares and ammo for a weapon he doesn’t have.

Dean notices, but doesn’t comment.

John thrusts one of the flares in his direction, which he takes without a word before they hear the sound of footsteps again. Two this time, running, growing louder before beginning to fade. 

A beat of silence passes as Dean and John look at each other through the dark. Dean’s scared. He’s trying to hide it, but even in the darkness it’s plain as day. 

They’ve already lost Sam. John will be damned if he can’t protect Dean.

“Stay close,” he warns as they proceed, more cautious now as they try to keep to the shadows.

There are tools strewn across the floor at the end of the row of crates. John takes a wrench and a set of plasma cutters. They don’t make the best of defensive weapons, but he still suspects they’ll have a use.

Another doorway, and they emerge onto the corridor down which they’d heard the footsteps. They can’t see beyond the door and John strikes up one of the flares. It crackles softly, bathing the cold metal walls in an orange-pink glow as they look around.

The corridor meets the room they’d just exited exited at T-junction, the space more open, and John glances anxiously down the path on the left. They’re going right, still heading towards comms, but he has no idea what lies in the other direction. Or who could come from it.

Both their senses seem heightened as they proceed down the corridor. It seems to go on and on, at least a hundred meters passing without reaching another room. The flare runs out after a minute or so, and John doesn’t want to risk wasting another one. They carry on, cautiously feeling their way in the dark. Every little noise seems amplified: air quietly blowing from the vents, the soft hum of electronics powering the lights.

When the next sound comes, it makes both their blood run cold.

Something clangs up above them. They freeze, heads turned towards the panels overhead. There comes the sound of what could be footsteps if it weren’t for the strange rhythm, a metallic scraping that passes directly above them. Then it begins to recede in the direction down which they’d come.

Dean reaches out to grasp at John’s shoulder. John lets him.

“What was—” Dean begins to say softly, but John cuts him off.

“I don’t know.” He looks nervous. Scared, even. He quickly checks himself. “But it’s not going our way, so it’s not our problem.”

“Dad…”

“Our priority is get to comms, contact Castiel, and find Sam,” John says firmly. “We keep moving.”

The mention of Sam’s name causes Dean’s heart to constrict. “Yes, sir.”

It’s twice as far again before another sign directs them right, through a sliding door locked by a clamp and industrial padlock across the handle. John smashes it with the wrench and pushes the door open, taking them through a short gangway before they emerge into the spaceport. 

The place is like a ghost town. Duty-free stalls and food outlets are locked down with metal shutters, flight information screens displaying error messages where they hang from the ceilings. Graffiti covers the walls, angry phrases scrawled on every surface.  _ Fuck Seegson. This is the end.  _ Dean feels a chill run down his spine.

A huge window takes up the entirety of the right hand wall, green sunlight filtering in through the polariser screens. Dean can’t help but stare, just for a moment, at the vast space beyond. Thousands upon thousands of stars populate the inky sky, sparkling points of light in the darkness. It’s rare he gets to see it like this, not dulled and filtered through a thick atmosphere or displayed on a pixelated monitor screen. Pure, open space. He’s always taken aback by the beauty of it. Sometimes looking out he can believe humans can’t possibly be the only beings in the vastness of the universe. Maybe aliens. Maybe angels. Maybe something else.

He’s still staring when the blockish shape of an M-class starship begins to drift into view.

“Dad!” Dean shouts, a spark of hope igniting in his chest as he recognises it. “Dad, it’s the  _ Torrens _ !”

John turns, his eyes widen as it takes a second to register, and then he starts to run. He bolts up a ramp to a platform where a control panel is situated to look out at the incoming traffic and begins to throw switches. “Mills! Mills, it’s Winchester. We’re here!” All stealth is abandoned as he hopes something will open up a radio channel, desperately trying to get the computer or comms terminal or something to boot, but the ship continues to drift past without a blip. She better just be searching for a better radio signal, because if she’s leaving…

“Mills, wait!” The ship reaches the far side of the screen and vanishes again. John swears loudly. “Dammit!” He kicks the terminal hard and then slumps down against it, breathing heavily.

Tentatively, Dean approaches. “Dad? Now what?” He can’t hide the fear in his voice.

It takes a second for John to regain his composure, then he straightens up. “We stick to to the original plan. Get to comms.”

He turns and begins to head down the other side of the ramp without looking back. Dean follows. 

They head through to one of the departure lounges, a wide room filled with plastic chairs and several pillars supporting the low ceiling. The door on the far side should take them back through to check-in and the main station, but it’s locked. A sturdy orange clamp has been secured to the centre of the sliding doors, magnetically locked into place, and it’s going to take more than a wrench to smash.

Fortunately, John has the plasma cutters.

“Dean, keep a look out,” he orders. “I’m going to get this door open.”

“Yes, sir.” Dean nods as his dad crouches down to tamper with the lock. The plasma cutters roar as John first works at the deadbolt, and Dean turns to squint cautiously into the dark.

His breathing’s too fast, adrenaline flooding his system. They’ve been to some shady outposts before, places they were glad to see the back of, but Sevastopol is something else. Every sound from the vents or machinery ticking over has Dean on the edge. His stomach churns with barely contained panic that they’ve lost Sam, and he wonders if they’ll find his brother in one piece.

Something clangs on the floor behind one of the pillars.

Dean’s head turns, muscles suddenly tensed. Drowned out by the plasma cutters, John doesn’t appear to have heard. “Dad?” He isn’t loud enough to draw his father’s attention, but it’s half intentional as he doesn’t want to alert the intruder he knows they’re there.

Dean takes a tentative step forward and hefts his crowbar to shoulder height. His muscles tense, ready to swing, but it proves he’s over-eager. Something moves in the shadows, and in a panic Dean lunges.

He’s out of range. The crowbar cuts the air as the figure twists out of the way, and Dean overbalances. He stumbles, then suddenly finds himself in a chokehold and a gun digging into his temple as the weapon is knocked from his hand.

A knee to his back forces him towards John, who’s at last noticed something’s up. “You!” a voice shouts by his ear. “Drop that.”

John straightens up, locking eyes with Dean’s captor in a death glare, but doesn’t let go of the cutters. “Take your hands off my son.”

“I said drop it.” The muzzle digs in harder and Dean grunts. “Or you’ll be cleaning your son’s brains off the floor.”

A beat, then John reluctantly lowers the plasma cutters to the ground. “What do you want?”

The man ignores that. “Lose the wrench, too.”

John glares, unhooking the tool from his belt. “Maybe we can help each other?”

“I doubt that. What’s that uniform?”

“Weyland-Yutani.” John eyes him cautiously. “Let my son go, he won’t hurt you.”

A pause, then the man roughly shoves Dean away as he re-aims the gun to point at John. “Who are you?” he demands.

John puts his hands up in a pacifying gesture. “My name is John Winchester. This is my son, Dean. We arrived on a ship…”

“How?” the man barks. “There’s been no flights for weeks.”

“Special charter. Company orders. There’s something on Sevastopol we’re meant to retrieve.”

“Hmm.” His eyes narrow. “And what about the people on Sevastopol? When are they gonna send a ship to retrieve us?”

“I don’t know any more about it than you do,” John says, but the man’s growing more agitated as he slips into ranting.

“There’s something on this ship. It’s  _ killing  _ people. And do the bastards at Seegson care?”

Dean watches the whole exchange nervously. That sentence makes his breath hitch. “Hey,” he suddenly says, and is met with a stern look from John. He ignores it. “It was you, wasn’t it? Watching us in the warehouses.”

The man turns to him, expression guarded, but it seems to have distracted him from the angry rambling he’d been verging on. “Had to make sure you weren’t gonna be trouble.”

“Yeah, well that’s smart. Seems to me like you must know your way around here. Maybe you could help us get where we’re going?”

The man suddenly rounds on him. “Why? What’s in it for me?”

“A way out of here. Help us make contact with our ship.”

It only takes a second for the man to consider. “Alright,” he says, lowering the gun to gesture at the plasma cutters on the floor. “Come on, Weyland-Yutani. Get those doors open. We’re not safe out here.”

John glances at Dean, and Dean thinks he maybe gets a slight nod of approval before his father bends down again to pick up the cutters. Dean turns back to the man. “What’s your name?”

“Gordon Walker.”

There’s a roaring as the cutters spring to life again and John makes quick work of the lock. The circuits are offline and it’s an effort to pry the doors open, but John gestures for the crowbar. “Let’s go,” he says, jamming it in and giving a shove.

He gets the doors open just far enough for them to crawl through, and then they’re at a deserted security checkpoint. John begins to head for the only other visible exit, but Walker hurries towards one of the side walls. Both Winchesters take a moment to wonder what he’s doing before they see the shape of a vent cover through the shadows.

The circular cover opens and Walker clambers inside. “Come on,” he urges, gesturing agitatedly for them to follow.

The vent is more cramped than the last one, and the three of them have to crawl on hands and knees before Walker drops down onto a lower floor and the passage widens. He must know where he’s going, but it’s still too dark for John and Dean to see. John lights a flare.

Walker gives him a look, scowl illuminated by an orange glow that turns it more severe. “You want to be careful with those. They attract attention.”

The light lasts long enough for them to reach another circular vent cover about four feet off the floor. As darkness swallows them again, Walker heads through first, allowing a thin band of light to illuminate the vent interior before Dean and John follow. 

The room beyond is small, lit dimly by electric lanterns positioned at each corner while an air filter hums quietly overhead. It looks like it was once a service room for the air filtration system, but has since been taken over by Walker as a supply hoard. Boxes of canned and freeze-dried food are stacked against one wall, alongside an assortment of electronics and ammunition, and blankets forming a makeshift bed have been pushed into a corner. There’s another exit via an air vent opposite.

“Can’t say much for Seegson’s staff accommodation,” Dean remarks, and Walker pulls a face.

“You think crew quarters are safe? The personnel have all turned on each other and there’s some kind of killer aboard this station. I’d rather take my chances here.” He heads to his pile of electronics and begins to search for something.

John watches. “What do you mean by ‘killer’? Who is it?”

“Not a ‘who’. It’s not a person.” Walker looks agitated. “Something else. Some kind of creature.” He finds what he’s looking for and turns back to them both, holding something out to each of them. It’s a headset with a flashlight attached. “Better than those flares you were using. Just be careful with the battery. Limited supplies.”

John doesn’t ask any further questions as he puts it on, but he exchanges an apprehensive look with Dean. He’s not entirely reassured about Walker’s state of mind.

“Comms is two decks above the spaceport,” Walker continues. “You want to get to an elevator. There’s one nearby but it’s broken. We can reach a service elevator if we head further out, but we risk running into Trenton.”

“Trenton?”

“Cole Trenton. Former security officer now heads up a gang of looters. Shoot first, ask questions never types. Best to avoid their territory.”

“I’m an engineer,” John says. “I can get the elevator working if I have the right tools.”

“I have some stuff for the electronics. Those tools you’re carrying, will they work?”

John glances down at his stolen belt. “I think I can manage it.”

Walker nods. “Alright, Winchester. Follow me.”

They leave the room via the opposite vent, clambering through a series of passages before dropping into a supply room. “Elevator should be just down here,” Walker says, hitting the release button by the door and rounding a corner.

Dean has to glance nervously back over his shoulder before they continue. He’s not overlooking what Walker said about a creature on the station, and he hasn’t forgotten the sound they heard earlier in the vents.

They find the elevator just where Walker says. A shaft of light is spilling from its interior onto the floor where the door is wedged open, and Dean feels a creeping unease as they hear the voices coming from inside. John presses a hand to Dean’s shoulder. “Wait here.”

John and Walker move closer, bringing into view the two figures inside the elevator: a man and a woman, leaning close to the control panel with its cover off and circuits exposed. The man glances back over his shoulder as he hears them approach, face instantly hardening as he gives a warning tap to his companion. “Lenore.”

She pauses in her work to look over at them, and John instantly notices the weapons attached to both their belts.

Walker clears his throat. “We don’t want any trouble. This man here’s an engineer; thought he could help fix the elevator.”

The woman, Lenore, looks at them coolly then turns back to the circuit board. “I think I got it.”

“That’s great,” Walker tries. “Maybe we could take a ride with you.”

Her eyes narrow. “Sorry, I don’t know you. You’re on you own.”

“We just need—”

The man cuts him off. “You take us for idiots? You’re not coming with us.”

For a moment John wonders if he might have use for his Marine training. They’re armed, but so is Walker and John reckons between the two of them they could take them both, but he’s all too aware of Dean standing just a few feet away.

A moment later, and it all amounts to nothing anyway. 

The LED display over the elevator doors blinks green. “Benny,” Lenore says, nudging her companion. “I got it. Let’s go.”

He turns back to her, hand hovering warningly over his gun before he kicks out the prop from the doors and they begin to slide shut. John watches Benny’s glare vanish behind the metal as the light turns back to amber.

A few seconds pass as they hear a soft rumbling in the elevator shaft, watching its progress in the display. “We’ll call it back when they’re done,” John says gruffly. “Chances are they aren’t headed our way.”

Dean takes a few paces closer as they wait for the elevator to dock, before the rumbling ceases and the display shows it’s stopped at deck four. John hits the call button.

It’s asking more patience than he has for it to reach them again, a fierce glare fixed on the LED screen. A heartbeat passes. Another.

The light turns red.

“Son of a bitch,” John murmurs. “They shut it off.”

“You think you can get it back?” Walker asks, shooting John an anxious look.

“Not if they have control of the circuits.” He grits his teeth. “Where’s this service elevator?”

Walker’s look of anxiety turns to straight up apprehension. “I told you, Trenton’s crazy. You sure you want to head out that way?”

“Look, I don’t care who this Trenton is,” John snaps. “You’re gonna take us to the service elevator and get us to comms. I need to find my son.”

In the wake of his outburst there’s a pause. Walker’s brow creases and he glances hesitantly over to Dean. “He’s right there.”

“No, I…” John cuts himself off, suddenly wishing he’d held his tongue. He wants the help, but he hadn’t meant to advertise to every no-good looter on this station that Sam is missing. Walker may have helped them, but he’d held a gun to Dean’s head first. “My other son. He’s with the other members of my crew. We became separated.”

Walker gives a slow nod, but his eyes remain cautiously narrowed. “Alright, Winchester. I think I know a way we can go, but don’t think I’m gonna be risking myself for you or your son. A ticket off this station’s no good if I’m dead.”

John returns the nod. “Understood.”

That seems to satisfy Walker. For now. “Let’s go,” the looter says, all stops pulled as he takes out his gun and chambers a bullet. Dean wonders what kind of danger they’re walking into. “It’s this way.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

They come up on the dingy, ill-lit service corridor after about five minutes of walking. The elevator itself is somewhere deeper into the station, at the heart of a maze of service corridors running behind and between the main rooms.

Walker’s gun is gripped tight in his hand, and John finds himself really, _really_ wishing the man had had a spare. If they didn’t need Walker so much as an ally right now, he’d have considered trying to take the weapon for himself.

A couple of minutes pass uneventfully before John finds himself wishing even more he was in possession of gun. Footsteps begin to sound behind them.

John picks up pace to draw level with Walker. “Hostiles?” he whispers quietly.

“I told you: we’re in Trenton’s territory, we need to watch our backs,” Walker hisses. “Follow me.”

They turn off the main corridor into a storage room, rows of crates piled high as they duck down between them, moving quickly. Dean’s mouth is dry, nerves on edge as he dares glance back.

Two figures are following them: both men, tall, well built, and Dean feels a rush of fear. He doesn’t move to hide behind another row of crates fast enough. “You there!” a rough voice calls out, more than a hint of threat, and Dean finds himself being ushered on by John.

“Keep moving,” his father hisses.

The footsteps sound again, faster and closer this time, then Walker breaks into a run. He darts between the aisles of crates, varying his route and doubling back, and Dean hears the voices shout. “There!” “Did you see him?”

He’s trying to confuse them. Might even have been a good ploy until Dean hears the crack of a gunshot.

“Dammit,” John growls, turning to his son, who’s frozen dead. “Dean, get to the other side of the room, and don’t be seen.”

Dean nods, his leaden muscles finally awakening with a surge of adrenaline, and he runs.

He takes a left at the next gap between the columns and makes a straight break to the far wall, more shots sounding behind him. _Please don’t hit dad,_ he finds himself praying, and pauses just a second to glance back.

The looters don’t have firearms. It hits Dean like a punch to gut as he sees one of the men on the floor, blood staining the front of his shirt while Walker advances, wild-eyed. He squeezes the trigger again, putting around squarely between the man’s eyes. Dean cries out in shock.

The sound seems to grab Walker’s attention and he looks up, almost surprised to see Dean staring, then the second looter emerges from an aisle behind him.

Dean’s too stunned to even manage, “Look out!” He watches dumbly as he sees the man raise a baton and swing it towards Walker’s head. It collides with a crunch and Walker goes down, the pistol slipping from his hands and skidding across the floor.

It isn’t enough to finish him. Dean watches as Walker shakes his head, blood spilling from a cut above his ear, and tries to get back to his feet. He reaches futilely for the gun, meters away, as the looter hefts the weapon again for strike two. He’s never going to make it.

Dean is bracing himself to watch the seconds death of the day when John suddenly appears from between the rows of crates. He picks up the gun and in the same fluid movement aims it, firing with trained military precision to place a bullet in the second man’s skull. The body crumples.

Dean is in shock. Knowing his father had been in the colonial marines for years isn’t the same as seeing it demonstrated so coldly in front of him.

John reaches out a hand to help Walker to his feet, then turns back to his son. “Dean?”

“You shot him,” Dean says dumbly, voice shaking.

“Had to be done, son.”

 _No,_ Dean thinks, _no it didn’t,_ but there’s no time to say anything before there comes the sound of more voices nearby, urgent and angry. Somebody had heard the gunshots.

“I owe you for that, Winchester,” Walker says, clapping John on the back, and then looks to the wall behind Dean. “Let’s go.”

They clamber back up into a vent shaft, moving as quickly as they’re able, before finally the sounds of pursuers fade into the distance. They drop down into a circular room, machinery around the walls and chains and loading gear suspended from the ceiling.

“Alright, which way to the elevator?” John barks.

“Not far from the refinery. The minerals get brought up down that way, service elevator is right next to it,” Walker replies with a gesture, but neither has noticed the way Dean has scrambled away, still shaking.

 _“You shot them,”_ he finally accuses, voice wound tight. “They didn’t have guns. They wouldn’t have attacked us.”

Both men look at him, taken aback. “I’m sorry, were you not watching this?” Walker snaps, gesturing at his bleeding head, but John takes a few more paces towards his son.

“Yes, they would have Dean. You saw them attack Walker.” He’s trying to be calm, reasonble, but he still has hold of the offending gun. Dean’s eyes fix on it.

“Because Walker shot first!” he shouts. “No-one had to die back there.”

John comes to a stop just in front of him, considering. He’s right. Walker is a hothead. Rash. Reckless. But he’s got them this far.

“Alright, enough of this,” Walker finally says, irritated. “John, man. Give me my gun back.”

John turns slowly to look at him. “I don’t think so.”

“What, you listening to some scared kid? Just hand me my weapon back.”

“Dean’s right,” John says firmly. “You fired without assessing the situation, drew attention to us. That isn’t how the Marines trained me, and it isn’t how I do things.”

Walker glares, eyes wild in the darkness. “You owe me, John. I’m the reason you and your kid are getting out of here.”

“And just moments ago you said you owe me.”

The confrontation is making panic swell in Dean’s chest, but as he keeps a wary gaze fixed on Walker something steals his attention. Something drips onto Walker’s jacket. A thick, clear fluid, like some kind of gelatinous dribble coming from overhead, and Dean blinks as if unsure he saw it. Then it happens again. “Dad,” he whispers cautiously, tugging at his father’s sleeve.

“It’ll be fine, son,” John says dismissively, but it doesn’t help.

“No, Dad. _Look._ ”

Then, John does. Walker seems to have noticed too, pawing at the stickiness on his jacket with a frown, then his eyes pan upwards to the machinery overhead.

There’s a rectangular vent shaft extending down into the centre of the room, the end of it covered over with a grill that seems to be oozing the clear fluid. “What the…” Walker murmurs.

The end of his sentence is abruptly cut off. Without warning, a black spike extends from behind the vent cover and embeds itself in Walker’s chest. He gasps, blood trickling from the corners of his mouth as he stares down, disbelieving, at the barbed spike extending from between his ribs.

Dean cries out, and instinctively John throws out an arm, pushes his son behind him as they both stare on in horror. Then, as suddenly as it had emerged, the spike - _claw, tail, thing?_ \- wrenches Walker up and out of sight as he vanishes into the vents.

The vent cover tumbles to the floor with a clatter.

For a moment there’s silence, only the sounds of their ragged breathing to penetrate the stillness, then John grasps Dean’s arm to jerk him back to reality again.

“Alright, Dean, we have to go. The elevator isn’t far.”

“Dad, what _was_ that?” Dean chokes out, though he isn’t really expecting his father to have the answers.

“I don’t know,” John replies grimly. “But right now it isn’t our concern. We have to get to comms, contact Mills, and find Sam. If it’s just taken Walker, my guess is we have a window of time where it won’t be looking for anyone else, so we have to move _now._ ”

“But what if there’s more of them?”

“No more questions, Dean,” John says, resorting to the authoritative bark he knows Dean _won’t_ question, though he wants more than a few answers himself. “We’re going this way. Get to the elevator. That’s an order.”

“Yes, sir.” Dean nods meekly, and follows.

\---

They make the elevator ride in silence, but fortunately it brings them out almost directly at comms, just a short walk away via a transit station. They come up on the entrance in just a couple of minutes, the double doors emblazoned with the Seegson logo, and then head through to the reception area. A synthetic unit is manning the front desk - a “Working Joe” basic android almost mannequin-like it its plain white facial design and undefined features, but programmed to perform basic tasks and assistance for human personnel. There doesn’t seem to be any such human personnel around.

“You there,” John says when he doesn’t get the _“How may I help?”_ he’d been expecting as he strides over to it. “I need to make contact with the _Torrens,_ currently in parking orbit. Open a comms channel.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I can’t do that,” it replies emotionlessly, and Dean watches the familiar look of anger flit over John’s face.

“Why not?”

“All off-station communications have currently been disabled.”

“By who?”

“I am unable to disclose.”

John’s fingers flex about the gun’s trigger, and Dean wonders if he’s about to try shooting a robot in frustration.

“Yeah, well, I think we have an emergency override situation, here. There’s something on board this station. You need to start an evacuation procedure, so open the channels.”

“You seem distressed, sir.”

There’s a beat. Even with its utterly blank tone, there’s something about that which seems...threatening. Glowing white eyes fix on John, almost seeming to present a challenge. “Fine,” John snarls after a moment. “I’m an engineer. I’ll do it myself. Come on, Dean.” He turns away, heading back to the entrance, and confused, John follows.

“Dad?”

“We need to be careful,” John says once he and Dean are clear of the doors and out of sight again. “I’ve seen synthetics operate like that before. The military would put them in restricted mode when dealing with classified information. There’s no reason they should be behaving like that on a commercial station.”

As if Dean wasn’t already afraid enough. “So what do we do?”

“You’ve worked with me on units like this before,” John says, heading to one of the panels in the wall and taking out some tools from his belt. He starts unscrewing the metal cover close to the ground, where a small grill opens into the hallway to allow for air circulation. “They always leave air ventilation space at least a quarter way up the walls. We’ll head in that way and I’ll open a comms channel manually.”

“Dad.” Dean swallows nervously. “That...thing was using the ventilation shafts.”

“I know,” John says after a pause. “The difference is these are sealed for security. Nothing larger than a child can get in the vent openings. You have to open up the entire…” To finish his point for him, he gets the final screw off and lifts the entire panel away. “Get in,” he says with a jerk of his head. Dean scrambles into the crawl space, then John secures the panel loosely behind him as he follows.

“We just follow the wall round to the central comms station,” he says quietly. “Try not to make too much noise. We may be out of sight here, but anything out there can still hear us. Let’s go.”

They continue on in silence, John struggling with the tight space considerably more than the skinnier Dean. The vent is split about half of it below floor level and half above it, the occasional ventilation grill allowing light to spill in and them to peek out at the floor above. By the time they reach the second turn taking them to the core, voices start to sound nearby.

“I don’t care about your programming, this is an emergency. I need to make a distress call,” a man is saying, agitated. Dean and John creep closer, peering out through one of the vents to see a man and a synthetic facing off in the hallway.

“I’m not authorized to do that,” the synthetic replies, unfeeling.

“What part of _emergency override_ do you not understand?”

“You seem distressed, sir.” It’s the same chilling words the receptionist had used on John.

“Fuck, yeah I’m distressed! Have you not seen what’s happening on this station? There’s a creature out there _killing people.”_

“You need to calm down,” the synthetic responds, not even seeming to register his words. “Let me help you.”

Its next action shocks John and Dean both. The glowing white of its eyes turns an ominous red as it extends an arm and wraps its hand around the man’s throat.

“What are you…” he begins to protest, then the words are choked off as his windpipe is crushed by the robot’s grip.

“Please remain calm,” the robot says as it raises its other fist and lands a crushing blow to the side of the man’s head. His skull jerks, blood blossoming across his cheek. Hands scrabble to break free to no avail.

The Working Joe, goes again, pummeling over and over until the man’s body goes limp. Finally, it lets him drop to the floor, head landing right in front of the vent. Dean jerks back, shoving a fist into his mouth to keep from crying out. The man’s face is nothing but a bloody pulp with blank, staring eyes.

Indifferent to the blood seeping across the floor, the android’s eyes finally reset from red back to white. “Working Joes are here to help,” it states indifferently before turning and striding away.

Dean is shaking. His eyes are wide as he looks to John.

“I said something was wrong,” his father replies grimly. “We need to be careful not to run into them. Let’s go, Dean. Stay quiet.”

It isn’t far now before they come to a stop and John looks out into the corridor they’re running parallel to, eyes fixing on a doorway almost exactly opposite. There’s an ID access lock beside it, but the door is already propped partway open, seemingly offline. “There,” he says. “That’s the central comms unit. We’ll make a break for it here, Dean. I’m going to get this panel off. You check the coast is clear.”

Dean keeps an eye out up and down the hallway as John works as the screws, holding his breath as he prepares to lift the panel away. “Dean,” he hisses.

“All clear, dad,” Dean replies, and then John lifts and pushes the heavy metal flap away as quietly as he’s able. It clangs nonetheless, the sound ringing in both their ears, but no synthetics appear from either end of the hall. John gives it just a moment before nodding to Dean.

“Alright, I’ll go first. That room over there.” He clambers out ahead of his son, keeping an eye out for danger, then Dean follows much faster, both of them hurrying as fast as they’re able to the door.

The room beyond is office-like, lockers lining the walls  and multiple stations for comms workers, and John hurries to one and thrusts his ID into the login port. Dean holds his breath as green pixels flicker over the screen then clear to a message that simply reads, “Restricted.”

“Dammit,” John growls, then turns to the tower beside it. “I’m going to try a manual override: reboot to a state before the restrictions were enforced. That means it needs taking off the main network. It should be one of these connections…”

Dean watches him remove the cover from the tower, revealing a tangle of wires plugged into more ports than he can count. It seems like a long shot, but if anyone can find a way of making this work, it’s John.

“Come on,” he murmurs under his breath, watching his father work.

“You are not authorised to be here,” a voice says behind him.

Dean doesn’t know how he missed the approaching footsteps; why neither of them thought to close the door behind them. The next thing he feels is the bruising grip of the synthetic around his arm.

“Dad!” he cries out, struggling in vain to break free, and John turns. It seems that he doesn’t even think, eyes burning with fury as he raises the gun and fires once, twice, into the synthetic’s head.

The Working Joe stumbles, grip weakening enough to allow Dean to wrench himself free, and then it rights itself and begins to advance again. Its eyes glare red.

Undeterred, John instead hefts the wrench, stepping up to meet it as he swings the tool at the android’s head. The impact sends its head turning through 180 degrees with a crunch, but its body doesn’t stop. It raises a hand to grasp John’s arm and Dean steps in, hefting his own crowbar and swinging. It hits it in the arm and dislocates the shoulder with a pop.

It’s bought them time, but the synthetic still doesn’t stop.

“This behavior is unnacceptable,” it says, voice hollow and distorted as it unsteadily tries to advance.

“Dean, locker!” John shouts, and for a moment Dean turns to the lockers in confusion before he understands. He wrenches one open, just in time for John to grab hold of the advancing synthetic once again and shove it hard towards the open space.

Its head lands on one of the shelves, shoulders jamming against the rim, and then John grabs the door hard from Dean and slams it against the robot’s neck. White fluid sprays.

John goes again, slamming the door over and over until finally he’s cut clean through the synthetic neck. There’s a sickening crunch and then the body slumps to the floor, lifeless.

John pulls back, wiping his face on his sleeve, and then they turn to each other, panting. Relief is on the cusp of reaching them when a noise like scrabbing footsteps sounds in the vents overhead.

For a moment, panic has Dean rooted to the spot, but John moves faster. He grabs hold of his son, dragging him down underneath one of the desks out of sight, then clamps a hand over Dean’s mouth. “Shh,” he whispers, holding Dean still.

It’s not a moment too soon. There comes a sound from up above them, somewhere between a hiss and a growl as the creature comes to investigate the disturbance. The scrabbling falls silent, and for a moment Dean wonders if the creature has decided to pass them by. Then there comes an ominously loud cloud as an overhead vent cover falls open.

Something lands on the desk above them with a heavy thud. The computer tower topples to the floor, sparks flying, and then a sharply barbed tail - the one that had killed Walker unfurls beside it.

Dean’s biting Johns hand to keep from screaming.

Several heartbeats draw out, a sound rumbling in the creatures throat like a demented purr as it investigates the dead android. From what John and Dean can see from their hiding place, all they can make out is a skeletal black shape with sharp ridges running along its back, finally terminating in the wicked tail ominously swishing just feet from where they’re hiding.

The creature seems to smell the android for a few moments, and then, dissatisfied, it gives a shriek. There’s more clattering as it leaps onto the desk again, and then a clanging as it once again vanishes into the vents.

John and Dean wait for the sound of movement to recede, although it’s hard for Dean to hear anything above the pounding of blood in his ears.

At length, John gives him a gentle nudge to climb out from their hiding place again. “Here’s what we’re going to do,” he says, voice somber. He doesn’t comment on what they’d just seen. “We going to find the main exchange board, and wire up a channel to ships stationed in parking orbit. Once we have that, we’ll direct Mills to dock. Then we’ll make a shipwide broadcast to tell Sam to meet us at the passenger docking bay.”

Still shaking, Dean just nods. He doesn’t want to entertain the thought of what if Sam doesn’t get the message.

“It’s the next unit, or the one after. Let’s go.”

They move through to the next block of comms stations, nerves on edge, though so far the coast seems to be clear. John starts pulling panels off the walls, searching for the switcher board, and gives a triumphant laugh of relief when he finds it. “Dean, keep an eye out. I almost have it,” he says, flipping the switches on the dormant channels. Red lights above the comms units flicker to green.

John whoops. “Alright, come on,” he says, thrusting his card back into a login slot and grinning when it takes him to a live command line. “Emergency protocol…” he murmurs to himself, manually typing in a command to open a channel. “Open transmission frequency 147 Hertz…”

The screen blinks, beeps, and then the speakers in the comms station go live, crackling with static. A voice breaks through the noise.

“Sevastopol, this is Captain Mills of the _Torrens._ Do you read me? What the hell is goi...ng on? I’ve…”

She’s beginning to break up, but still, it’s something. “Jody!” John shouts in relief, eyes darting for a microphone. He finds one beside the monitor and yells into it. “Captain Mills, it’s John Winchester. We’re on board the station.”

“Do you read me?” she begins again. “I’ve...trying to make contact...two hours. Is anyone there?”

“Mills!” John tries again, but his face is falling.

“Come in, Sevastopol.” She can’t hear him.

“Shit,” he murmurs, frantically typing _begin transmission_ into the command window, only to be met with a blinking error message, “ _Failed to establish connection. Realign antennae.”_

 _“_ Dammit!” John yells, and Dean can’t help but flinch as he swipes the microphone from its stand and lets it clatter to the floor in rage. So much for keeping quiet.

There’s another burst of static, the _Torrens_ moving out of orbital range, and then Jody’s voice turns to nothing but broken syllables.

For several seconds John stares in disbelief at the screen, breathing heavily. Dean watches the anguish play out on his face, pure desperation turning to defeat, and he knows he’s not going to let that happen. Not yet.

“What’s Plan B?” he asks, tone practical and determined, albeit in a voice that’s still slightly shaking.

John looks up at him, disappointment and guilt flitting over his face that he’s let Dean down. Let both his sons down. But this isn’t over. “We can try…” he begins, but before he can finish fate seems to throw them a long overdue lifeline.

Static crackles on one of the nearby comms screen, a familiar voice suddenly breaking through as it futilely tries to make contact with the passing ship.

“Mills? Mills! It’s Castiel. We’re on board the station. Do you read me?”

John and Dean glance at each other, and suddenly both are darting frantically over to the active comms unit.

“Castiel!” John shouts, hitting the transmit button. “We’re here. Dean and I are on board Sevastopol.”

The distorted on-screen image of a tanned face and messy hair gives a static-riddled frown at the voice, and then his eyes widen as he pulls up video of the transmission. “John! Milton and I feared you were dead.”

“No, we’re here,” John says, voice breaking with relief. “Me and Dean.” He glances briefly at the face currently peering over his shoulder, then turns back to Castiel with a sense of urgency. “How’s Sam?”

The amazed but relieved smile on Castiel’s face suddenly falters. The moment’s hesitation is enough to make Dean’s heart drop to the pit of his stomach, filling with dread. “You mean he’s not with you?”

“What do you mean ‘with me’? Isn’t he with you and Anna?” Panic bubbles to the surface in the form of anger as John suddenly finds it hard to breathe.

Castiel looks awkward, apologetic. “John, he’s not with us. I’m sorry.”

Dean’s eyes flicker to where John is gripping the edge of the console, knuckles whitening. “You mean to tell me my son is somewhere on this god-forsaken station filled with thugs and killers on his own?”

Castiel swallows. “If he’s on the station at--”

“No.” John’s rebuke is swift. “He’s on this station, and I’m going to find him. And when we get out of here, I’m going to make your company pay for what it did to my wife and what you’re doing to my sons or so help me.”

That draws no reaction. Castiel observes him steadily. “But first, let’s get out of here.”

Another beat of tension, and the John lets out a sigh. “Alright, where are you?”

“We’re at the main transit terminal, but Milton was injured by debris in the blast. She needs medical attention. I don’t think I can move her. Where are you?”

“Communications,” John answers. “Tried to make contact with Mills, but external comms are down. Receiver works, but the main transmissions dish has been misaligned. I think it’s the same damage we saw when we arrived.”

Castiel nods gravely. “It seems the station is in worse condition than expected.”

“Yeah, there’s something else too. The AI’s gone crazy: synthetics are straight up murdering everybody left on board. Dean and barely made it through here.”

A look passes over Castiel’s face as if he can’t make that compute. “That can’t be right. It runs counter to basic synthetic programming.”

“Tell that to the synthetics we encountered on the way up here,” John growls. “And that’s not all. There’s something on board Sevastopol. Some kind of killer.”

“You mean a person or a synthetic?”

“No, I…” John heaves a sigh of frustration, finding himself struggling for words. “Some kind of creature, or thing...”

Dean has the words, even if his father doesn’t. “An alien.”

His statement draws a frown from Castiel. “Weyland-Yutani has mapped most of the galaxy and alien life has never been discovered.”

“Yeah, well I know what I saw,” Dean snaps. “It’s black and spiny with a tail like a razor blade, and it killed someone. You tell me I can find something like that in a zoo, and I’ll take back that it’s an alien.”

There’s a pause. Castiel’s expression looks troubled, but not half as much as Dean thinks it should be. “Alright,” he eventually says. “All the more reason to be cautious. We need to reunite but I can’t move Milton.”

“We’ll come to you,” John says. “We passed a transit station on our way here: looks like it’s still online. We should be able to make it back to the terminal.”

“I’ll be waiting,” Castiel says, and the transmission cuts off.

John turns back to his son. “Time to go,” he begins to say, but no sooner has he finished the sentence an alarm begins to blare all around them. The white lights of the station turn red, begin to flash, and a cold, robotic voice announces over the intercom:

_“Unauthorised transmission detected.”_

“Shit,” John murmurs. “Come on, Dean.” There’s no time to go scrambling back through ghe vents. Not when they know what’s in there. They head back out into the hallway and begin to run.

As they round the corner in the direction of the exit, more of the synthetics appear, red eyes burning as they calmly advance. John raises the gun again, firing two shots to knock one of them back. “Keep going!” he shouts, buying them enough room to escape.

They both head for the gap, the androids quickly closing in again, and Dean lets loose with a swing of the crowbar as one gets too close for comfort. It hits it in the side of the head, knocking the artificial skull to an awkward angle, but doesn’t stop its advance. A hand comes up and closes around Dean’s arm, wrenching the weapon from his grasp. He struggles, panicked, before there’s another gunshot from nearby and the synthetic lets go, white fluid spraying against the wall.

John roughly grabs his shoulder and drags him away.

They’re up on the double doors in a minute, and Dean feels another surge of panic as he sees they’re in lockdown, refusing to open. With a curse of frustration, John shoots the control panel on the wall, sending sparks flying, and then with a hesitant creak they begin to slide apart.

He has to be running low on ammo by now, Dean realises with a feeling of dread.

Their footsteps pound down the hallway in the direction of the transit station, hoping their relative speed will at least buy them chance to get in a transit car before the synthetics catch up with them. They’ve almost made it when another figure appears in front of them.

Suddenly, John grabs Dean’s arm to haul him back, processing the situation faster than his son. A woman is advancing on them from across the floor of the transit station, brandishing a rifle. Behind her, more figures begin to appear.

Meanwhile, the Working Joes continue to advance.

“You did this,” she shouts at them, accusatory. “You triggered the alarm.”

“I was trying to call for help,” John tries to explain, but she doesn’t seem deterred. The band of looters following have all fixed them with menacing looks, and instinctively John takes a step in front of Dean.

They both jump when the sound of rifle fire comes from behind them.

John whips round to see a man with a semi-automatic raised on his right arm, gunning down the advancing synthetics one-handed while with his left he unhooks something from his weapons belt. It appears to be some kind of grenade, and he pulls the pin with his teeth before tossing it into the swarm.

A beat passes. Another, and then suddenly there’s a flash. Dean sees forks of blue lightning crackle between between the androids before he has to turn and shield his eyes, then, shortcircuited, he hears them drop to the ground with a thud.

The alarm continues to blare for another moment before the man turns to an emergency comms point in the wall and opens fire again. It seems to trigger a reset as more sparks fly and the alarm falls silent. Then, finally, he rounds on John and Dean.

“And who might you boys making trouble be?” the man drawls, rifle still semi-raised in threat.

John responds by keeping a tight grip on his pistol. “Just two men trying to stay alive, just like you,” John replies, not quite hostile, but his tone carries a warning.

“You don’t answer my question, you won’t be doing such a good job of that,” he warns, raising the rifle a little more pointedly.

John swallows, then backs down slightly. “Name’s John Winchester. This is my son, Dean. Who are you?”

“Cole Trenton. Security,” the man replies, confirming John’s fears. “And I don’t know you. Makes me wonder what you’re doing in my part of the station.”

“Trying to send out a distress signal,” John says semi-truthfully. “Thought it we could make it to comms we could send a message for someone to come get us.”

A leer twists on Trenton’s face. “Ain’t no help coming. You should know that by now. No ships have docked here in months.”

John knows better than to correct him. “It seemed worth a shot.”

“Yeah, well, now you’ve encountered the Working Joes perhaps you’ve learned your lesson.” He jerks the gun again and takes a step forward. “So here’s the deal: you surrender whatever you have on you - food, ammo - and we let you run on back to your own part of the station unharmed.”

“You wanna be careful, boy,” John growls, and Trenton seems taken aback. “In the marines they taught us every man for himself is the surest way to get you killed.”

The look of shock is quickly erased from Trenton’s face. “Yeah, well this ain’t the marines,” he growls. “And if you value your son’s life, you’ll take the deal.”

He rounds on Dean, rifle raised, but Dean isn’t paying attention. Instead, his gaze is fixed on a point in the ceiling somewhere behind and above Trenton.

Like the rest of the station, air vents run through the walls and ceilings, and one such shaft extends across the circular area housing the transit station. There’s a grill in the ceiling situated slightly off center, and a familiar string of thick mucus hangs down between the bars. Dean’s eyes are wide as he stares.

Trenton frowns, annoyed, and then turns to see where Dean’s looking. The sight seems to confuse him too, and then John and Dean are briefly forgotten as the looters have found something else to attract their curiosity.

Trenton steps up to the aperture in the ceiling. He raises his pulse rifle to nudge the muzzle at the string of mucus clinging to the grate, expression a mixture of confusion and disgust. “What the f-”

What happens next is too fast to process.

A sudden clattering breaks the air as the grate crashes open, black clawed hands reaching down to grasp Trenton and haul him into the vents. The gun goes off, proving no deterrent to the creature while it send the rest of the group ducking for cover. John and Dean are quickly forgotten in the shouts of panic as one looter rushes forward to grab Cole’s feet, but as his screams fall silent, only a bloody corpse tumbles back down.

A twisted black shape drops from the hole in the ceiling, and all hell breaks loose.

There’s the sound of shrieks and gunshots, turning to screams from one of the looters as the blasts fail to fend off an attack. John grabs his son’s arm and the pair of them run for cover, diving behind the stack of hoarded crates while the creature continues its carnage. More gunshots break the air, then a final scream, raw and guttural turning to a pained gargle as something spatters onto the floor. Then, it all falls silent.

John and Dean crouch behind the crates, fighting to make their heavy breathing as quiet as possible. Dean’s eyes are wide, frightened, glancing to his father for reassurance as the sound of claws scrabbling on the metal floor draws closer.

Mucus continues to drip from the gap in the ceiling.

“Dean,” John says after a minute. “I’m going to draw it away. Get to the transport car, get back to Castiel and Milton, and find Sam.”

Dean swallows nervously. “What about you?”

“You heard me. Find your brother.”

There’s a pause, dread settling in the pit of Dean’s stomach as his father’s meaning sinks in. Then he nods. “Yes, sir.”

“Good boy.” John cocks the gun. He crouches by the corner of the stack, peering round as his eyes track the alien’s movement. The end of a barbed tail disappears round the side of a control unit, then there’s a thud as it leaps onto the desk.

John darts out from behind the crates. “Dean, go!” He lets off one shot in the creature’s direction and there’s a screech as it turns to face him, suddenly launching itself from the desk.

Dean bolts out from his hiding place and runs.

He doesn’t dare look back, heart pounding harder than his footsteps as he keeps his eyes trained on the transport dock. More shrieks and gunshots sound behind him, but he forces himself not to imagine the worst as his lunges for the call button and slams it hard.

The doors don’t open.

_Shit._

Only then does Dean glance back, terror flooding him as he sees the flash of gunshots behind the wall of crates. He can’t see John.

Dean turns back to the button and starts to mash it, but he can see the car’s progress on the display and that won’t make it arrive faster. All he can hear are screeches and the pounding of his own blood  before the doors finally open and he practically trips over himself to get inside.

Dean steels himself to look back.

John’s on the floor, blood smearing behind him as he drags himself forward, face contorted in pain. The gun’s gone, lost or ammo spent, and now he’s completely defenceless.

Dean hesitates. His father looks up, meets his eyes, and shouts, “Go! Find Sam!” Then a barbed tail appears from behind the crates, wraps itself around John’s calf, and drags him out of sight.

A beat passes as Dean finds himself rooted to the spot in shock. For a moment he can’t process, his father’s screams ringing in his ears, then he’s jerked back to reality with a jolt of dread.

The alien emerges from behind the stack. Its claws tap against the metal floor, an ominous rhythm as the ridges of its spine cast grotesque shadows on the wall. Its head turns, glossy black without eyes fixing on Dean, and its jaws open. White teeth bare at him as an unearthly screech leaves its throat, then it begins to charge.

The doors aren’t closing.

_Fuck._

For a heartbeat Dean’s frozen in fear, before he sees the button by the door and lunges to hit it. Painfully slowly, the doors begin to slide shut.

“Come on, come on,” he murmurs as the alien draws closer, teeth and claws in too sharp focus as the opening narrows. A second set of jaws extends and snaps just inches from his head before finally the doors slam closed.

There’s a thud as the dome of its head rams the other side, then the car’s moving, whisking Dean away towards relative safety.

His stomach turns over. There’s no comfort. No reassurance. His father’s gone, his brother’s missing, and Dean’s completely on his own.


	4. Chapter 4

There’s a comms station on standby not far from the alighting exit. It unwinds the tension in Dean’s gut just slightly as he logs on and patches through to Castiel and Milton. “Cas, Anna, it’s Dean. I’m at the transit station. Where are you?”

There’s a pause, then Castiel answers. “Dean, where’s your father?”

“He’s…” Dean’s chest tightens. “He’s gone. It was the creature. I almost didn’t get away.”

Another pause. “My condolences.” He sounds awkward.

 _Douchebag,_ Dean thinks. “Alright, tell me how to get to you. I’ve just left line A coming from communications.”

“We’re at terminal three. Follow the signs for lines D and E. Take care not to run into any looters.”

“You got it,” Dean replies with a grimace. The transmission cuts off.

Dean looks to the signs hanging down from the ceiling, and begins to make his way towards the others. He’s in shock. Too vulnerable. Alone. He can’t get the image of John’s face as the creature dragged him away out of his head, and he has to bite down hard on his lip to keep from crying. He can’t afford to break down. With John gone, he’s all Sam has.

His pace picks up when he comes up on the entrance to terminal three, hurrying through the doorway to one of the pillars where he sees two familiar figures huddled at the base. “Cas! Anna!”

Castiel looks up, but Anna seems too weak to even turn her head. Dean’s not too sure she’s even conscious. Even from a distance, he can see the blood spreading across her abdomen.

“Dean.” Cas looks genuinely relieved to see him. “I’m...sorry about your father.”

Dean feels a lump in his throat. “Don’t. Not now.” He can’t afford to dwell on in before they find a way out of here. He nods towards Anna instead. “How is she?”

Cas returns his attention to his colleague. “Not good. Medical isn’t too far away, but I’m afraid to move her in this state. If I could just find a way to stop the bleeding…”

A thought occurs to Dean. The kind of thought that makes his stomach do backflips and his brain scream at him that he’s an idiot, but he ignores both. “What do you need?”

“Bandages. Morphine. Antibiotics. A basic first aid kit would be a start.” Cas seems to think the question is hypothetical until he notices the look on Dean’s face. “Dean?”

“Which way to medical?” He’s made up his mind. Best way to find Sam is to go looking, right? “I’ll go fetch supplies.”

“On your own? Absolutely not. I won’t allow it.”

Dean gives a bitter smile. “My dad’s dead and my brother went missing in an unauthorised EVA. You’ve already voided your insurance. What do I have to lose? You stay with Anna, just tell me where to go.”

A look of grim discomfort crosses Cas’ face, his jaw tightly clenched, but then he nods. “It’s the final stop on line D. Hold down the emergency button when you call it, it should take you straight there.”

Dean nods. “Got it.” He begins to stride over to the transit dock for line D, then glances back. “Cas, did you see anything at all of what happened to Sam?”

Castiel looks at him, expression apologetic. “No. I’m sorry.”

“Right.” It had been a slim hope when Dean already knew the answer, but hearing out loud is still crushing. “Worth a shot.” He holds down the emergency button as instructed when he calls the car.

As the doors begin to slide open he hears Cas’ voice once again. “Dean.” He glances back. “Be careful.”

It seems like he really means it. Dean nods in acknowledgment as the doors slide closed, then he’s speeding away once again.

\--

The clinical smell of disinfectant hits Dean’s nose almost as soon as he arrives at the medical facility at the other end. Dean wrinkles his nose as he steps out, but it’s still a step up from the stench of gasoline and smoke elsewhere on the station.

Dean wishes he still had the gun. He’s cautious, but he’s holding out hope that the creature, whatever it is, won’t have ventured out this far. The Working Joes are still are risk, but it’s rare for non-human personnel to be employed in medical care and he thinks they should be easy to avoid. The danger, he suspects, will be the looters. With any luck, there’ll be no more armed gangs like Trenton’s, but for all he knows the patients left on the wards are armed up and ready to kill.

If there are any patients left. As he approaches the front desk, everywhere seems strangely deserted.

“Hello?” He calls out before considering whether it’s a good idea, and is relieved when he gets no reply.

Dean leans further across the desk, trying to glimpse the screen of the computer terminal atop it, and starts suddenly when he glimpses the body lying on the floor. “Fuck!”

He leaps back, heart pounding, then tells himself to get a grip. It isn’t the first dead body he’s seen since he got here, and he doubts it’ll be the last.

Dean crosses round to the other side of the desk, kneeling down cautiously to examine the body. It wasn’t the creature. Or the synthetics, unless they’ve taken to using weaponry. There’s a bullet hole in the back of its head, spilling brains and skull fragments over the floor. Looks like he was right about the looters.

With a grimace, Dean straightens up again and crosses to the computer. There’s still an ID left in the log in dock, he guesses from the dead woman on the floor, and her messages are still on the screen.

Dean scans through the inbox, scrolling over the decommissioning notice John had found earlier to all Seegson employees, to a message about quarantine procedure. Intrigued, he clicks through to report dated a week ago regarding a “ _female patient, early sixties, admitted with unidentified parasitic organism attached to her face. Follow tier one quarantine procedure.”_ The flag next to it identifies the message’s contents as classified and high priority.

Dean frowns. The quarantine order is authorised by a Marshal Henriksen, and he recognises the name. Captain Mills had tried to make contact with him on the _Torrens,_ before his name had come up again on the terminal John had accessed earlier.

Dean scrolls up again to the most recent message, a less formal correspondence from a Dr M. Masters to a Dr R. Cortese.

_Henriksen can go fuck himself. I’m overriding quarantine and initiating evacuation procedures, or we’re all gonna die._

That sentence sends a chill down Dean’s spine. He turns away from the console, taking the ID card from its dock and pocketing it, and then heads towards the ER bay. He needs to get what he came for, and get out.

The ER is just as deserted as the rest of the medical wing when he reaches it, and he wastes no time in raiding the nearby carts for bandages and supplies. He knows it isn’t enough to treat a shrapnel wound, but it’s a start as he grabs a supply bag before he heads to the floorplan on the wall and identifies the nurse’s station. It’s pretty central to the medical facility, a circular glass room no more than a few minutes away from anywhere.

Just a couple of turns through the hallways and he gets there quickly, only to stop dead when he realises the place isn’t as abandoned as he thought.

Beyond the glass screen is a woman, dark hair, white coat over blue scrubs, pacing nervously. She has a device in her hand - clunky, with a thick, tube-like antennae - and she stares nervously at the screen for the split second Dean sees her before she ducks down nervously behind the counter.

Enemy, ally, or other, he has no idea, but he still has the crowbar. He thinks he’ll take his chances.

“Hey!” Dean darts forward, rapping his knuckles on the glass to get her attention. It takes a few seconds for her to peer over the counter again, but when she does, her eyes widen. She looks shocked to see him. And angry.

She glares, mouths something at him, and he realises he can’t hear her through the glass. There’s a pause before she seems to realise too, and then glances down to hit the comms buttons on the counter. Dean hears an irate voice over the speakers. “What are you doing here? I thought everybody had cleared out.”

He glances round quickly before finding the “talk” button on the wall and holding it down to speak. “You a doctor? My friend needs help.”

Her eyes narrow. “Sorry, kid. Everyone’s friend needs help. You’re on your own.”

“Look, Dr…” He glances down, squints at her name badge. “Masters, I just need some supplies - bandages, medicine - then I’ll leave you alone.” Another pause as she eyes him hesitantly, then, “Please.”

She grits her teeth then gives a huff. “Alright, round the back. It’s the way in.”

He looks over the the far wall, the glass turning to solid metal about half way round the room, then turns to follow the curve as it takes him through another set of doors towards the entrances. Once he reaches the door that says “Staff Only” he hits the intercom button.

“Dr Masters, it’s me. Let me in.”

“I don’t even know who ‘me’ is,” she hisses back, but nonetheless the door slides open and she hurries him inside before closing it again.

“My name’s Dean Winchester,” he tries to introduce himself, but she’s already opening cupboards to grasp supplies which she thrusts carelessly into his hands. Only when she reaches up to a top shelf, twisting to make the stretch so that her white coat opens further, does he notice the gun tucked into her waistband. His mouth goes dry.

“Here,” she says, thrusting some bandages and a suture kit in his direction. “Will that help your friend?”

Dean swallows nervously. “What about morphine? Antibiotics?”

“I don’t keep them here. They’re in the pharmacy.”

“Where’s that?”

“Nearest elevator, two floors down.”

“Can you take me?”

She fixes him with a glare. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, kid, but this station is currently a hostile environment. The AI’s going crazy, looters are shooting people, and there’s some kind of creature out there killing everybody. This room’s secure. I’m staying right here.”

Dean thinks back to the body in the hallway, and isn’t so sure it’s just the looters. “The creature isn’t there anymore; it’s in sector C.”

Her eyes narrow. “You’re sure? You’ve seen it?”

“I’ve just come from there.”

She bites her lip, crossing back to the counter where Dean can see she’s left the device he saw earlier. “I’ve been tracking its movements with the motion detector. It was in the vents over here not too long ago.”

“Come with me or not, but I need to get the meds.”

She gives him a look. “Well, I’m not stopping with you.”

“Look…” Dean needs her help. Or at least Anna does. “The ship that brought me here is still in parking orbit. There’s a way off this station. You help me; I’ll help you.”

That seems to get her attention. “How do I know I can trust you?”

He throws up his hands. “What do either of us have to lose?”

“Alright.” He can’t quite tell if he’s convinced her or not, but she goes to another cupboard and pulls something out. “Comms headsets used by the nurses,” she says, tossing one to him while fitting another in her ear. “I’ll direct you to the pharmacy.”

He clips the earpiece below the flashlight and scowls. “So you’re not coming?”

“Already told you, freckles. I’m not leaving here unless I have to. I’ll get you to the pharmacy and back, then you’ll take me with you to your ship. Deal?”

Dean pulls a face. It’s not quite as fair a deal as he’d hoped. “Fine. Can I at least have that?”

He jerks his head at the motion sensor, and a look of anxiety crosses her face. “I need that.”

“I’m the one heading into the lion’s den. I need it more.”

There’s a pause, then she finally relents. “Alright, _fine.”_ She snatches the device up and thrusts it at him. “Elevator’s at the end of the hallway. Hurry. Just because you last saw it in sector C doesn’t mean it won’t come back.”

He nods then heads back out into the hallway, static crackling over his earpiece. “Winchester, you read me?”

“Yeah, doc, I read you,” he confirms, reaching the elevator and hitting the call button.

“Two floors down to level three. Be careful.”

Dean doesn’t need telling twice.

\--

Even alone, the elevator ride is somehow even more tense than the last. There’s no-one there to have his back, tell him what to do, reassure him everything’s under control. Now it’s all on Dean. Anna’s depending on him, _Sam_ ’s depending on him, and he can feel the pressure winding his muscles tight like an abused spring. The fraught voice in his ear is worsening the feeling more than it eases it.

“Okay, doc, I’m here,” he says in a hushed tone as the elevator draws to a stop.

“There’s a vent opening just outside the exit,” she warns. “And be careful it’s not in the elevator shaft.”

“I think it’s a little late for that,” he says, stepping out into the darkened hallway, though he’s relieved to be met with only silence. He glances towards the vent cover. The motion sensor in his hand remains blank. “I think we’re good. The vents down here seem a little small.”

“If they are, it means you’ve nowhere to hide.”

She’s right, he realises with a sinking feeling. “Alright. Which way?”

“Just keep heading straight. Should bring you up on the pharmacy in a few minutes.”

Dean sets off, keeping close to the wall and glancing down nervously at the detector screen every few seconds. With the emergency lights operating at a dim red he can’t see far, but the flashlight on his headset would light him up like a signposted target if he switched it on. There’s a gentle curve to the corridor that restricts his already limited range of vision, and he’s barely remembering to breathe as he watches the device for signs of movement. The occasional ventilation grills in the wall really are too small to allow the creature to pass through, but as he realises just how far the corridor goes without any doors or turn offs, it makes him nervous more than it reassures him. Maybe it means he’s not vulnerable to a sneak attack. It also means there’s nowhere to hide.

He’s been walking in the dark for about three minutes when he finally comes up on a door, the blinking amber light on the card reader beside it letting him know the lock’s offline. He squints at the door sign. It’s not the pharmacy.

“Doc, I’m at the morgue,” he hisses into the earpiece.

“That means you’re half way,” comes the reply, “And quit it with the ‘Doc’. Makes me sound like some white haired nut in his sixties. My name’s Meg.”

“Okay…” he says quietly, continuing on. “Meg.”

“Any sign of the creature?”

“Nothing, so f…” No sooner has he begun saying it does he hear the clanging somewhere in the ceiling high above him, followed by the scrabbling of claws like an oversized rat. The sensor gives an urgent beep. “Actually, I think we might have company.”

“Shit,” she hisses in his ear. “Get a move on kid, before it reaches you.”

From the screen, it looks like there’s movement from somewhere in the direction he came. The detector doesn’t have depth dimensions, he reassures himself. Doesn’t mean it’s on his level yet. “No, I was just gonna stand here and wait for it to find me,” he spits sarcastically back, but his pace has quickened considerably as he sets off again. He’s boots are deafeningly loud on the metal floor, and he has no idea if he’s getting away or just drawing it nearer.

He covers the second stretch of the corridor twice as fast as the first.

“Alright, I’m here,” he pants, breathless, as he comes up on the pharmacy entrance. He pushes on the door, panicked slightly when it won’t budge, until he realises the card reader on this one is red. “It’s locked.”

“You need a staff login. Look for the keypad. You can enter it manually.”

He flips open the cover on the pad below the lock, ready for her to tell him her number, until he has a thought. “Wait.” He takes out the card he’d snatched from the body earlier and pushes it into the slot. There’s a second before the light turns green, and then Dean hears the _clunk_ and hiss as the door slides open. Beyond is a room lit by a blue emergency light marginally brighter than the hallway behind him, lined with shelf stacks up to the far wall. They’re still surprisingly well stocked. He can see several boxes and pill bottles filling the racks, and Dean feels a sense of unease as he wonders why the looters haven’t raided this place yet.

“I’m in.”

“How did you manage that?”

“Ran into a doc earlier who, uh, wasn’t looking too hot.” He glances down at the card in his hand to remind himself of the name. “Ruby Cortese.”

“Oh.” There’s a pause. “Yeah, like I said, the looters are going crazy.”

There’s something in the way she says it that unsettles him, but he bites his tongue. Now isn’t the time. “Alright, my friend’s taken some shrapnel to the gut. I need antibiotics and painkillers.”

“Anything from aisle E should help. Penicillin is the end nearest the door, opium derivatives are further back. Stocking up on adrenaline shouldn’t hurt either. Check out aisle D.”

He doesn’t take time to read the labels, they’re meaningless to him anyway. He just finds himself hoping Cas has a better knowledge of first aid than he does if he gets back in time. Dean still doesn’t trust Meg.

He crams as many drugs into the first aid pack as he can before slinging it over his shoulder again, then dashes back towards the entrance. “Meg, I’m on my way back.”

“Yeah. Hope I’ll see you soon, kid.”

He takes the corridor heading back at a run. It isn’t far, he keeps telling himself. Make it to the elevator, then make it back to the transit car without running into trouble, and he’ll be safe.

He’s so close to making it as far as the first step when he sees it.

Dean halts suddenly, biting down hard on his tongue to keep from crying out as the black shape comes into view further down the hall. The motion sensor’s giving him nothing.

He holds his breath, frozen in place.

It doesn’t seem to have seen him. It’s hard to tell, when the emergency lights are so dim and it’s distant enough that he can’t make out more than a silhouette, but between that and the sensor, he doesn’t think it’s moved. It’s not even obvious if it’s facing in his direction, but one thing he figures is that he’d been wrong about the vents. Looks like it can fit into tight spaces.

Ever so slowly, Dean begins to retreat, backing away in the direction of the morgue. “Meg,” he whispers once he’s far enough away that the curve of the corridor obscures him again. “It’s down here with me.”

“Shit, what?”

“I can’t make it back to the elevator. Is there another way out?”

“Morgue and pharmacy are on a secure corridor for a reason. That’s the only exit.”

“ _Fuck.”_

“Sorry, kid. Best advice I can give you now is hide and pray.”

She doesn’t even seem all that concerned. Dean reaches up to switch off the earpiece, deciding it’s not helping, before he begins to creep closer to the morgue entrance. The motion sensor starts to beep.

His heart leaps into his throat, pulse quickening as he fumbles for the device. It’s too loud, a dead giveaway of his position, and right now he’s better off without it. His finger is on the power button just as it falls silent again.

“ _What the fuck?”_ he mouths at it. He has no idea what the creature’s doing, and he doesn’t want to hang around to get answers.

He steps up to the morgue entrance and slides a hand into the crack in the doorway, pushing it open as quietly as he can.

It’s almost impossible to see in the room beyond, and he has to take care not to trip as he inches further inside. There’s a table in the center he can just about make out, a sheet draped over the top of it, and his stomach churns as he realises there’s a body underneath.

Despite his caution, he isn’t prepared for it when his foot meets something soft and heavy on the floor. He stumbles, loss of balance sending him hurtling into an equipment cart with a crash. His free hand flies out to steady himself, meets a wall, and he cries out as he feels a sticky, gelatinous substance beneath his hand.

In the near distance, far too near for comfort, he hears a shriek.

_Fuck._

The motion sensor starts to give an incessant, urgent beep.

Dean, turns it off, mouth dry, but the noise is still ringing in his ears as his mind races. He’s going to die a morgue. Fuck, if that isn’t irony…

 _It isn’t,_ Sam would probably tell him. _The exact opposite._

Maybe surviving in a morgue would be the truly ironic thing.

Dean darts for the fridge compartments on the back wall, wrenching one open and pulling open the tray. It’s already occupied, the body in question wrapped in a sheet, but there’s just gonna have to be room for two as Dean lies himself down beside it with a grimace and starts to slide the slab back into the wall. He’s just got the door slammed shut behind him as there comes the creak of the morgue door opening, followed by an unearthly shriek.

In the pitch dark, Dean waits.

Everything outside is unnervingly quiet. He strains to hear over the pounding of his blood, and thinks maybe he can hear the tapping of claws on the metal floor. There comes an oddly squishy sounding _thud,_ and then, without warning, something collides heavily with the wall of refrigerator doors.

Dean has to clamp a hand to his mouth to keep from screaming.

In the cold, he shivers, opening his fingers slightly to let out a controlled, steady breath. There comes the sound of something scraping over the metal doorways, and if he had to guess, he thinks it’s lashing out with its tail and the spines have hit the back wall.

Then for a moment, things fall silent again. He’s just debating whether to check the motion detector when out of nowhere comes another blood-chilling screech.

It’s too close. Far too close. Right outside the door.

Dean squeezes his eyes shut, praying it doesn’t know he’s here and those claws don’t have the dexterity to open the fridge, and then there’s the sound of footsteps again. More accurately, scrabbling claws, growing fainter as he hears them recede at a gallop. Does that mean it’s gone…?

He doesn’t dare check before another minute or so has passed in silence, when he reaches down to switch on the detector again. The screen flickers to life, a dim green glow in the darkness. There’s nothing there.

Dean heaves a sigh of relief, reaching to push the door open again and drag himself out. He gulps down a breath of air to lose the smell as he climbs down, glad to be free of the cold. He still can barely fucking see. It’s got to be safe to turn the flashlight on now, right…?

He’s just reaching for it when something cold, and slippery, and heavy lands on him from above.

Dean screams. His hands fly to bat it away, and again he stumbles, panicked feet sending him hurtling. A flailing hand grasps for something to hold onto and finds only the sheet covering the slab, dragging it with him as he falls to the floor. He lands with a grunt, then hurries to switch the flashlight on as he stares wide-eyed into the darkness.

When he does, he almost wishes he hadn’t.

The thing he’d swiped away is unlike anything he’s ever seen. It’s pale, vaguely fleshy-colored, and for what Dean can only describe as spider-like. Eight arms extends from its body, curling like a claw over its pinkish, obscene belly while a ninth appendage extends in a long, rubbery tail.

Best as Dean can tell, and damn, it really is the _best_ he can make of the situation, it appears to be dead.

“Fuck,” he mutters as he gets to his feet, casting a glance around him and feeling another wave of nausea. His gaze lands on the body on the slab first, and for a moment he has to close his eyes.

The horror show is still there when he opens them again.

It’s a woman, her face unblemished as he takes it the narrow nose and pointed chin, red hair spilling over her bare shoulders, but south of that he can barely tell what’s what through the gore. There’s a gaping hole in her chest, tissues and ribs protruding as if something had _exploded_ out of her.

Dean can’t help it. He gags. He’s still turned away retching when he sees the other horrors in the room, and it straight up makes him vomit. He has to take several seconds gasping for breath once he’s done, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand

There are bodies on the floor he _knows_ weren’t put there by medical personnel. There’s one by the doorway that he’d tripped over when he came in, and he thinks he’s ready to throw up again on an empty stomach when he recognises as Walker. Another fresh one lies in front of the fridges, the face gone, mangled beyond all recognition, but if he’s judging right by the security uniform, it’s Trenton.

 _Fuck,_ Dean thinks, pure terror beginning to creep down his spine.

More of the viscous, clear substance he’d seen dripping from the vents earlier coats the walls, melding into something darker, opaque and organic looking. The creature isn’t just roaming the station at random.

 _This is where it’s bringing the bodies,_ Dean realises with a sense of horror. _Which means it’s coming back._

He can’t stay here any longer. Dean steps back out into the hallway, and runs.

* * *

 

* * *

 

 _“Meg!”_ He’s still running when he makes it back to the nurses station, gasping for breath, but he can’t slow down. He makes sure to head for the side with the glass screen, keeping it between her and him as he slams his hand onto the intercom button. “Hey, Dr Masters!”

She looks surprised when she sees him. Shocked. Not exactly pleased. “Whoa, kid. What is it?”

“You knew,” he seethes. “That’s where it came from, isn’t it? Down in the morgue. You knew it was nesting down there and you let me go anyway.”

She looks for a moment like she’ll feign ignorance, then it turns into indignation. “That was your idea, freckles. Not mine.”

“You didn’t think to tell me?”

“You’re the one who said your friend needed drugs. That’s the only way to get them. I was just helping like you asked.”

“Yeah?” He glares. “What about Dr Cortese? You helping her too?”

Her eyes narrow. “What about her?”

“Oh, nothing. Just that I found her in the hallway with a bullet wound in the back of her head, and you’re standing in there with a gun, so you tell me.”

She bristles. “Well, if it’s true about the gun, don’t you think you should take a little more care with how you talk to me?”

He smirks, and raps on the glass with his knuckles. “Safe room, right? Reinforced and bulletproof. That’s why you won’t come out. Also, don’t forget I’m your only shot at getting off this station. Just tell me the truth. I’m not taking you anywhere until I know I can trust you.”

There’s a beat as he watches the conflict play out on her face, debating which tack to go for. In the end she goes for pleading. “You don’t understand! I had to break quarantine. Ruby tried to stop me. The air vents get shut off when we’re in lockdown, switched to internal circulation. We were trapped in here with it. If I didn’t let it out, we were all gonna die!”

“Who’s ‘all of you’?”

“The patients! I had to get them out!”

“Yeah, get them out to fend for themselves in the rest of the station while you stay here in your panic room.” He gives her an unsympathetic look.

She huffs. “Okay, Dean. Maybe you don’t trust me. But if your friend’s taken a shrapnel wound, I’m still her best shot at survival. You’re taking me with you.”

He chews his lip, hesitant, but he knows he needs to make a decision fast. “Alright, fine,” he says after a moment, then jerks his head urgently at the door. “Let’s go.”

She seems impatient to get moving. Meg lets go of the intercom, turns instead to hit the release button on the opposite wall. It slides open.

White teeth set in ominous black jaws emerge on the other side.

There isn’t even time for her to draw the gun. For a moment, Dean almost doesn’t register what’s happening, Meg’s muted scream barely sounding through the glass as it pounces on her. A moment later and the sound is abruptly cut off as its mouth opens and a second set of smaller, snarling jaws extend and punch straight through her skull. Blood sprays over the glass screen.

Dean cries out and leaps back in shock.

He’s frozen in fear as the alien lifts its head, the blank dome of its head free of eyes, but nonetheless seeming to fix its gaze on him as it stares through the glass. Then it tosses Meg’s body aside and leaps.

Dean feels the shudder in the floor, hears the screen rattle as minute cracks begin to form at the point of impact, but reinforced, it holds. The alien screeches, clawing at the glass as it realises it can’t get through. It’s enough to snap Dean out of his daze. He turns and runs.

He can’t think clearly enough to remember the way out, just knows he has to put as much distance as he can between him and the creature as his feet pound down the corridors. Somewhere behind him, he hears a shriek, followed by scrabbling claws, and he knows its out of the nurses’ station.

Fuck, but he doesn’t even know where he is, and the creature is _fast._ If it sees him, it’ll be on him. His only shot is to somehow lose it.

Dean’s eyes dart round, and he spies the full-size vent cover in the wall. He knows it uses the vents. There’s no guarantee of safety if he heads up there. But he also knows that, right now, it isn’t in them.

Looks like vents it is. Dean hits the release button and clambers inside.

As the opening closes up behind him, everything immediately falls dark. Even the distant shrieks turn somehow muted, the loudest thing now becoming his breathing as it echoes off the walls. Dean reaches up to turn on the flashlight and takes out the motion sensor again.

The display shows nothing: the creature isn’t in range. He’ll take that as a good thing. Now he just has to find his way out.

Dean begins to crawl, taking the path he thinks at least takes him _away_ from the ER hopefully back towards the entrance. When he passes another vent opening he chances a look out, and from the nearby x-ray machine realises he’s in radiology. Not the right way, then.

He backs up, returns to a fork in the vents and this times decides to take the turn left instead of right. The motion detector gives a beep.

 _Fuck, no._ Dean’s stomach flips over. He turns back round again, starts crawling faster as he tries to get away from the green dot that’s appeared on the screen. Even so, it’s gaining on him.

_Shit shit shit fuck._

He looks for a different turn, some way he could put more distance between him and it or even drop out of the vents altogether, but he’s stuck taking the path up ahead. He needs to crawl faster, but _fuck_ he’s just a gangly human and he isn’t built for this.

The detector’s beeping starts to get faster. Dean’s breathing quickens, panic seeping through his body as he fights to stay quiet, stay calm. _Oh shit, it’s almost on top of me. No no no fuck no._

He sucks in a breath through his nose before hurriedly moving to turn off the flashlight and the sensor. He wishes there was a way to mute the fucking thing, but it’s too late to do him any good. By now he can hear it: movement in a vent running parallel to his, the clanging louder than even the pounding of his heart.

It’s barely meters away. All it needs is the next corner, then the last thing Dean will hear in the pitch darkness is its demonic screech before those claws tear into him...

Something collides with his right shoulder and Dean cries out in terror.

It’s not a scream: more of a yelp as his throat seems to have tightened with fear, but the mind-numbing panic soons gives way to shock, then confusion as he realises there’s no pain. The weight on top of him moves again and he hears breathing. _Human_ breathing, followed by a voice. “Dean?”

There’s a heartbeat of disbelief before relief crashes over Dean like a tidal wave. His hand flies to turn the flashlight back on. “Sam?”

There’s no room for doubt. The flashlight beam illuminates Sam’s face, casting harsh shadows over his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose, looking a little bruised, but undoubtedly alive. For a moment they just stare at each other, each wearing the same look of shock and disbelief, and then suddenly they embrace.

Dean crushes his little brother to him, burying his face in Sam’s hair as he realises Sam’s _alive. “_ I thought you were dead,” he chokes out, voice embarrassingly close to breaking. He feels a one armed hung clinging on as tightly to him, nails digging to his back. After a few moments that probably already last too long, although both wish they could last longer, they both pull back. Sam winces, and Dean notices he’s cradling his left arm to his chest.

“Sammy, you hurt?”

“I’m okay,” his brother whispers back. “Think I twisted my arm when I grabbed onto the airlock door after the cable broke. Came looking for help in the medical bay, but…” He trails off, expression suddenly turning scared. “Have you seen the thing that’s out there?”

Dean swallows. “I’ve seen it.”

“I tried hiding in the vents. There are some of the smaller ones it can’t get down, but I wanted to come look for you and dad. Where is dad? Did you seen him after the wire broke?”

The relief Dean felt at finding Sam suddenly turns sour, like a hole has been punched in his gut. “Dad…” He wants to protect Sam, but he can’t lie. “Dad’s gone.”

There’s a beat, and Dean watches the shock and confusion play out on Sam’s face. “What?”

“The creature got him.”

Another beat, Sam’s face twisting in a look of denial and bewilderment, then he breathes, “No…”

It breaks Dean’s heart. “Sammy, I’m so sorry.” He sees the tears welling up in his brother’s eyes, and it’s a fight not to let them start spilling from his own as the full weight of the loss crashes down on him. He has to be strong. For Sam.

The silence drags out as Sam gulps, then wipes his eyes on the back of his hand. “Alright. I guess now it’s up to us.”

“What’s up to us?”

“We have to find out what happened to mom.”

“Sam!” That hardly seems like a priority to Dean anymore. “All we have to do right now is get out of here alive.”

“If we leave without finding out, then it was all for _nothing._ We owe it to both of them.”

“We owe it to both of them to _live.”_ Dean sighs. He’s just so relieved to find his brother alive again that he doesn’t want to argue. “Let’s just get back to Cas and Anna first, okay? Anna’s hurt. She needs our help.” He unslings the medical kit from his back then holds out his hand to his brother. “Here, let me take a look at that.”

Gingerly, Sam extends his injured arm and Dean examines it as best he can in the dim light. Not that he’s a medical expert, but he’d guess it’s sprained, the joint already turning red and swollen. “Let’s try this,” he says, taking one of the elastic bandages from the pack and slipping it over Sam’s wrist, before taking out another piece of fabric and fashioning a crude sling. “How’s that?”

Sam winces slightly and flexes his fingers. “Good. I think it helps.”

“Alright, we need to get going,” Dean says, packing his stuff away again. “Stay behind me. I’ve got the motion tracker.”

“Yeah, yeah. You and your fancy gadgets. Bet you wouldn’t have lasted half as long as I did without them.”

“Shut up,” Dean retorts, but he can’t describe how happy he is to have his brother here teasing him again as they begin the laborious crawl through the vents.


	5. Chapter 5

They make it back to the transit station without running into the creature again, despite a couple of tense moments when the detector’s beeping gets faster and they both find themselves huddled in the vents holding their breath. Only once the car is moving again do they both relax, and Dean finally allows himself to feel that spark of hope that he knows Sam is alive and they might both make it out of here yet.

“Cas? Anna?” Dean’s voice is urgent once they get back to the terminal, clutching the medical supplies, though that really isn’t the news he’s most excited to share. “I found Sam.”

His brother follows close behind as Dean hurries to where he’d left them both earlier. “Here, I brought supplies.” He hands them to Castiel, who kneels beside Anna and gives him a look somewhere between anxiety and gratitude.

“We were starting to grow concerned you wouldn’t make it back,” he says. “And Sam. I can’t tell you how relieved I am.” He looks past Dean to the younger brother, but Sam gives him a cautious look as he looks somewhere over Cas’ shoulder.

“Yeah. Who’s that?”

Dean follows where he’s looking just in time to see a gun pointed in this face and the sound of a hammer being pulled back. “I’ll ask the questions,” says the man behind it. “Who are you?”

“Whoa, hey…” Dean’s caught between his instinct to retaliate and recoiling in shock. He’s not used to having guns pointed at his skull.

“Marshal, he’s with us,” Cas intervenes, hands moving in a slightly less-than-calm pacifying gesture. “He was with us on the  _ Torrens  _ when we hailed you. He went to get help for Anna.”

“Hmm.” The man keeps the gun pointed at Dean for a few seconds longer, who has his hands raised in surrender, then looks past him to Sam. “I never granted permission to dock. I’m treating you all as hostiles. In current circumstances we can’t afford to be lenient.”

“Marshal, they’re just kids.” Anna says it weakly, only just conscious enough to follow what’s going on.

The man looks down at her, and Dean calms his panic just enough to notice the official looking badge pinned to his chest. He seems to assess the situation for a second then turns back to Dean, marginally less hostile. “Alright boy, what’s your name?”

“I’m Dean Winchester. This is my brother, Sam.” He really doesn’t want the man speaking to Sam at all, if he can help it.

“Well, Dean, I’m Colonial Marshal Victor Henriksen, and when my team get here you can all come with me to the Marshal’s station and tell me what it is you’re doing here.”

“Yeah? Because you aren’t moving Anna until Cas stops the bleeding, and I think we’re owed a few answers of our own here, so how about you tell us what the fuck’s going on?” He isn’t quite sure where the sudden burst of defiance comes from, though maybe it’s the pent up fear, the pain and anger of losing John still raw in his chest. His father wouldn’t stand to be treated like this.

The outburst seems to take Henriksen by surprise too. “Your daddy never teach you to respect authority, kid?”

“My daddy’s dead, because of whatever the fuck’s on this station that you’re not telling us about.”

The Marshal’s expression suddenly changes. His look of hostility changes, flickering through surprise and caution to settle on something more calculating. “You’ve seen it?”

This is only making Dean more confused. “Yeah.” 

“Then you can be useful to us.” He hesitates for a moment then lowers the gun, having apparently reached a conclusion Dean isn’t sure how he should feel about.

“Why? What is it?”

“We’ve been referring to it as a xenomorph. Best as we can figure, it’s some kind of lifeform we haven’t seen before. Possibly extraterrestrial.”

Dean looks at him, deadpan. “No shit. Really?”

Henriksen glares. “Lose the sass, boy. When we get back to the station I’ll need a full report from you.” Henriksen glances at the first aid pack in his hands. “Those medical supplies?”

Dean nods. “Yes, sir.”

Henriksen jerks his head at Anna. “Alright, see to your people.”

Dean hands the supplies to Cas, who immediately moves to start inspecting Anna’s wound further as he finally disinfects it. She whimpers softly.

Dean tugs Sam to the side to get a closer look at his hand. In the brighter light now he’s sure it’s sprained, the younger boy’s wrist an angry red. “Take these,” Dean says, handing him some painkillers from the pack.

Henriksen’s team - all four of them - arrive not long after from E line. They’re decked out in tactical gear, far better armed than any of the looters Dean’s encountered. He’s just disappointed by the surprisingly small number of them.

“Alright, let’s go!” Henriksen barks, and two of the soldiers move to open a stretcher to carry Anna. Castiel is herded ahead of the armed escort alongside Dean and Sam.

They take the transit car on line D. Dean wonders briefly if being accompanied by armed officers in tactical gear should make him feel safer, more reassured. It doesn’t.

It’s a short ride, no more than five minutes before they reach their stop and their party moves out. They’ve let Dean keep the motion tracker, but he doesn’t reach for it as Henriksen communicates with someone on his earpiece. “Tran, I need visual on Hall D, Junction 48.” He waits for a response then nods an all clear. “Let’s go.”

Looks like some of the security cameras are still working, then.

When they arrive at the Marshal’s station, they bypass the front desk straight through to an office. One of the walls is taken up by stacked cathode ray screens hooked up to camera feeds. There are a lot of cameras on a station this size, but it’s still disconcerting to see the number displaying green “no signal” error messages.

At a computer on the desk in front of them, a man - kid? Dean doubts he’s even as old as he is - is casting his eye over them, refreshing different feeds and comparing them to a schematic of the station on screen. He turns to greet Henriksen as they enter. “Glad you’re back safe, sir.”

Henriksen nods grimly. “Where’s our other patrol?”

The boy’s face falls. “Lost contact around the sector A and B main junction. I have visual, sir, but it’s not pretty.” He presses a button on his keyboard and a grainy camera feed fills the screen. It’s low quality, but still sharp enough that Dean can make out the bodies lying haphazard in the hallway, blood smearing the walls.

Henriksen drags a hand over his face. “Dammit.” It takes him a moment to process as he realises he’s down to the last of his men, then remembers there are others here. “Alright, you can put her down over there. I assume you can look after her,” he aims at Cas as they lower Anna onto a nearby bench. “This is Kevin Tran. He’s my deputy and operational support, keeps an eye on what’s going on in the station from here.” He introduces the kid in the headset. “And as you may have unfortunately just realised, we’re now down to just five official law enforcement officers on board. Security have gone rogue. It’s up to us to deal with the situation.” He turns to Dean. “You, Winchester. Sam?”

“Dean.”

“Dean. We’ve been dealing with this situation since the creature was brought on board days ago, but I’m afraid we’re still unprepared. Tell us what you know.”

Dean’s mind races through what he’s seen, the bodies in the nest, the second set of jaws punching through Meg’s skull, but something else has grabbed his attention. “Wait, hold up, you first. What do you mean brought on board?”

Henriksen gives him a warning look. “Kid, we’re pressed for time here…”

They’re both interrupted by a knocking sound from somewhere behind them. It makes Dean jump, by now conditioned to panic at the sound of unexplained clanging noises, but Henriksen seems unperturbed. He turns to glance at a door in the far wall, scowling.

It’s ome of the holding cells, shutter drawn over the window in the solid metal door. “I can hear you out there,” a muted voice calls out from inside. “I take it this isn’t you idiots coming back with the food I ordered.”

“Crowley, shut it,” Henriksen snarls, striding over to door and drawing back the shutter. Through the glass, a brown haired man in his forties glares back. “We have a situation here,  _ because of you.  _ You  _ are  _ going to be charged with manslaughter through criminal negligence when we get out of here, at the very least, so if you don’t want to make things worse for yourself, just keep your mouth shut.”

He doesn’t take the advice. “My  _ negligence?  _ It was the people on  _ your  _ station that failed in your civic duty to treat my mother. I think I’m the one with a case for complaint here.”

Henriksen gives him a look of utter contempt, but says nothing more before slamming the shutter in his face. He turns back to the others, casting a glance at Cas before turning to Dean and Sam. “I know you have questions you want answered. Believe me, so do I, but right now, we need to know as much as we can about what we’re dealing with.” He looks at Dean expectantly.

Dean suddenly feels awkward, put on the spot. “I...I don’t know what I can tell you.” It all seems so inadequate. Knowing what the creature looks like, or that it’s moving through the vents, or that gunfire doesn’t seem to stop it, hadn’t been enough to save John. “I don’t think I know more anything about it than you do. It’s a big black alien creature that’s going round slaughtering people. I don’t know how to kill it. I don’t even know how to hurt it. I’m sorry.”

Henriksen grits his teeth. “Where did you see it?”

“I…” Dean suddenly realised there  _ is  _ something he can share. “In the medical station. There’s a secure hallway leading to the pharmacy and the morgue. It’s...it’s taking bodies there.”

That gets a look of surprise from Henriksen, and Dean thinks he’s been useful. “The morgue? You’re sure.”

“Yeah, I saw it.”

“There are dozens of bodies down there?”

That throws Dean for a loop. “Not dozens. Just a few, maybe…”

Henriksen suddenly narrows his eyes, and Dean bristles. “That doesn’t sit right. Since it’s been here, there’s close on a hundred people gone missing or killed.”

“I’m not lying.” Dean gives him an indignant glare, which Henriksen returns with one of his own.

“I didn’t say you were. But we  _ need  _ to figure out what this thing is and what its weaknesses are so we can find a way to kill it.” He looks tired. Desperate. Dean gets the sense he’s at his limit, and honestly, Dean doesn’t think he’s far behind.

“I’ve told you what I know, how about it’s your turn. You tell us how it got on board, and let’s compare notes.” It’s at that point he realises Sam has quietly crept up closer behind him, coming to stand less than a foot away as if to back him up.

Henriksen surveys them both steadily, then jerks his head towards the holding cell door. “You have him to thank for that. Captain Fergus Crowley. His ship, the  _ Anesidora,  _ docked three days ago with one of the crew members afflicted with an unidentified parasite.”

“Wait, the  _ Anesidora?”  _ It’s Cas who interjects, listening closely from where he’s tending to a barely conscious Milton. “That’s the ship that found the  _ Nostromo’s _ flight recorder?”

Henriksen turns to him, for a moment looking suspicious, then elucidation spreads over his face. “That’s right. You’re the retrieval team sent to collect it, aren’t you?”

Cas nods. “That’s us. What happened?”

Henriksen resumes his story. “Patient was Crowley’s mother. He wanted to bring her own board for treatment, but I invoked quarantine protocol that requires potentially contagious patients to remain isolated off-station for twenty-four hours. He didn’t much like that, so decided to ram us with his docking gear to force his way on board. A few hours later, that parasite turned into that... _ thing  _ now roaming the halls.”

Dean knows it’s not the most pressing matter right now. Not to anyone else, and not to their survival, but he has to ask. “What happened to the black box?”

Henriksen gives him a hard look, then after a beat, softens. “It’s over there.” He gives a nod towards one of the lockers marked ‘evidence’. “But we’ll get to that after we’ve dealt with the more pressing issue.”

Cas interjects again, and Dean’s grateful. “You need to hand it over now. It could have information we need.”

The Marshal doesn’t much seem to like that. “I’ve already reviewed the contents. Anything on there that could help us, I’ve already made note of. Believe me.”

“You didn’t have authorisation.” Cas fixes him with a glare, which Henriksen turns.

“Look at the state of this station. I’ve got looters, rogue synthetics, and some kind of alien causing chaos out there. Excuse me if I didn’t follow the necessary standards of bureaucracy.”

Cas doesn’t seem to have noticed, but Dean sees it as Anna tilts her head, apparently paying attention. She’s awake.

“What about the encrypted files?” Cas challenges, and Henriksen eyes him cautiously.

“Are you telling me you have the encryption key with you?”

Cas takes just a fraction too long to answer. “No. We’re to decrypt it upon return to Earth.”

“Then what use is it to us?” His stare hardens again. “I’ll release the black box to you, but we deal with the xenomorph first.”

It sounds final, his attention turning back to Dean, but Cas isn’t done. “No.”

It doesn’t seem like the Marshal is used to that. “No?”

“You hand it over first, then we help you deal with the xenomorph. If anything happens to you, Marshal, in the process of eradicating the threat, I need to know I can still access that box.”

There’s a stretch of silence as Henriksen glares. He isn’t used to being disobeyed, but overruling a representative direct from Weyland-Yutani is above his pay grade.

“We aren’t going anywhere, Marshal,” Cas reassures. “My colleague is hurt, and our ship can’t dock without your assistance.”

Another pause, then Henriksen nods. “Alright.” He crosses to the locker, takes out a set of old fashioned keys from his belt and opens it. “Here.” He places an object down on the desk, a very literal black box that he keeps a cautious hand hovering over. “That stays right there until the situation is dealt with. We need a plan, and you’re going to help us. Winchester.” His attention is suddenly on Dean again, but Dean is staring at the box, his mouth suddenly dry. That’s what holds the answers. The truth about what happened to his mother.

“Dean,” Henriksen says more forcefully, and Dean blinks and looks up. “You said it was nesting in the medical station?”

Dean nods. 

“Good. We can use that. There are ejectable ambulance modules attached to the medical bay. Before you got here, we tried luring the creature to a disused part of the station and rigging it all with explosives, but as you can see, that didn’t work. If we can trap it in an ambulance module instead, we can jettison it into space.”

“What makes you so sure it’ll work this time?” Dean challenges, and gets a glare.

“Don’t you forget who’s in charge here,” Henriksen says, voice hard. “If you think you have any better ideas, by all means tell me now, because you’re coming with us.”

That takes Dean by surprise. His eyes widen, but it draws a cry of protest from Sam. “No, you can’t make him! It’s your job to protect  _ us.” _

More diplomatically, Cas interjects. “Marshal, I really can’t allow that. While he’s on board, his safety is a company liability issue.”

“And what about company liability for everybody else on board?” Henriksen rounds on him with a glare, then snatches up the box on the desk. “This all happened because we’re holding  _ this  _ for you.” He slams it back down. “Is the company going to take responsibility for that? Because if not, we need him to take us to where it’s nesting so we can draw it out.”

“Marshal, he’s a child.”

Dean clears his throat. “I’m eighteen.”

Both of them turn to him, Henriksen irritated but Cas taken aback.

“I can make my own decisions,” Dean continues. “I’m coming with you.”

Cas now looks outright shocked, while Henriksen is satisfied. Dean hears the soft gasp from Sam behind him, coming to stand a little closer. “Dean, don’t…” He’s pleading.

Dean turns to his brother. “That thing killed dad,” he says, voice trying to be hard where it’s close to breaking. “If I have a chance to kill the son of a bitch, I’m taking it.”

Sam looks at him, anxious, scared, then his face hardens. “Fine. Then I’m coming with you.”

“Sam!” Dean feels a sudden rush of panic and fear. “No, you’re not. You’re staying here where it’s safe.”

“Nowhere’s safe,” Sam protests, but it seems that Henriksen is less keen for the younger brother to accompany them.

“Your brother’s right, you’re staying here. We don’t need a kid getting in our way. You’re no use to us. I’ll leave one of my men with you and Kevin on comms, and  _ you  _ can stay to take care of your friend.” He directs that last part at Cas, still hovering anxiously beside Anna.

Sam gives him a glare. He looks ready to protest again before glancing at the soldiers around him and the look he’s getting from Cas. “You make sure my brother gets back alive, or I’ll kill you myself,” he growls at the Marshal.

Coming from a fourteen year old, that almost seems to amuse Henriksen, until he realises how serious Sam is. “Your brother follows my orders, and he’ll be just fine,” the Marshal says. “Ketch, stay here and guard the station. The rest of you, with me to the armoury.”

The soldier in question barely manages to avoid looking disgruntled at being left on guard duty, then gives an obedient nod.

Henriksen glances at Dean. “That means you too.”

Sam clutches as Dean’s shoulder as he makes to leave. “You get back safe, yeah?” he says, looking his brother anxiously, and Dean tries for a reassuring smile.

“Don’t think I’m going anywhere. You’re stuck with me, bitch.”

“Jerk,” Sam replies, before drawing his brother into a hug.

It doesn’t last anywhere near long enough before they get an impatient, “Let’s go,” from Henriksen and Dean finds himself being marched out of the room.

**_\---_ **

The armoury is a short walk away down the hall from the main station, looking concerningly depleted of stock when they arrive. The soldier who’d been tugging him by the arm directs him to a rack of firearms then lets him go, thrusting a rifle into his hand instead. “You know how to use this?”

Dean thinks back to his training with John. “Yeah, I know.” He loads a clip then reaches for an ammo belt. “This gonna be any use to us? I’ve seen that thing take bullets, and let me tell you, they don’t seem to matter.”

He looks at her, her face grim, wisps of red hair creeping out from under her helmet. The name badge on her breast pocket says ‘Bradbury’. “I know, but it’s good to have something as backup.”

“Backup?”

She picks up another weapon and holds it out to him in two parts: a tank to carry over his back, and a nozzle to aim. It’s a flamethrower.

“Fire?”

“Doesn’t seem to harm it as such, but seems to scare it enough. That’s how we’ve been trying to herd it around the station.” She helps him put it on while the others reload on ammo. “By the way, I, uh...I’m sorry about your dad.”

That catches him off guard, and he has to swallow down a lump in his throat. He didn’t think they’d been paying that much attention, let alone care. He gives an awkward cough. “Yeah...let’s just get the fucker. It’s what dad would want.” He’s not going to cry. Not in front of her. “Your boss sure seems like a dick,” Dean remarks, aiming for composure as he hoists the tank onto his back and tries to find space beside it for the rifle.

She looks a little defensive. “I know Henriksen can seem harsh, but he’s a good Marshal. Cares about the people on this station. He’s going to keep us alive.”

“Those of us who are left,” Dean says bleakly.

She doesn’t get chance to respond before they hear the voice of the man in question, shouting at them from by the ammo racks. “Winchester, that headset you’re wearing, get it set to local channel seven. Tran will direct us as far as the medical station, but beyond that all camera units are down until we reach the ambulance docks.” He’s brandishing a flamethrower of his own. The other two soldiers have one flamethrower between them, larger, with one of them carrying a reserve fuel tank. Despite that, Dean isn’t exactly flooded with confidence.

“We’re taking transit line C to medical. Winchester, can you get us from there to the nest?”

He isn’t looking for an uncertain answer. It reminds Dean of John. “Yes, sir.”

That seems to satisfy the Marshal. “Good. Move out.”


	6. Chapter 6

Sam wants to scream. He wants to scream for his father, dead without any goodbye. He wants to scream for his brother, chasing down the creature responsible and maybe about to meet the same fate. He wants to scream for his mother, her story still untold after everything it took to get here.

Instead, he fixes a glare on the soldier standing rifle in hand by the door. “So, if they’re chasing down the creature out there, what are you in here guarding us for?”

The man, black hair the same color as his tactical gear, bristles in irritation. “In case you haven’t noticed, this station is rife with looters, and the synthetics seem to have developed a spontaneous malfunction. In any case, I need to make sure  _ you  _ don’t try anything to interfere with the mission.”

Sam stares him down. “Yeah,” he says, deadpan. “A teenager, an accountant, and an unconscious bleeding lady. We’re a real threat.”

He earns himself a glare. “If you aren’t going to say anything helpful, keep your mouth shut.”

There’s a tense silence between them. In the background, Kevin is giving directions over the intercom. “A transit car’s on it’s way to you. No visual between stations four and six, but other than that, the coast is clear.”

Sam scowls at Ketch for a moment longer, then turns and crosses to where Ketch is tending to Anna. “How is she?”

Cas looks up grimly. He’s already nearly exhausted the medical supplies Dean brought back, hands bloody after stitching and dressing the shrapnel wound. Sam thinks he must have had medical training. “Stabilising, but she’s lost a lot of blood.” He glances down at his colleague’s face, whose eyelids flutter as she gives a soft moan. “Sam, can you fetch me some water?”

It takes Sam a moment before he locates the sink at the back of the room, taking a mug from the desk before going to fill it up. Crossing to it takes him past the holding cell.

“Are those idiots trying to blast that thing into space again?” comes the voice from inside upon hearing his footsteps. “It isn’t going to work. The only way to get the bugger for sure is to purge the entire station.”

Sam hesitates. He lingers by the doorway, unsure whether to react, before snapping, “And what do you know about it?”

“A damn sight more than you,” he hears the reply, before drawing a reaction from Ketch.

“Don’t talk to the prisoner,” the soldier reprimands, and Sam gets on with filling the mug. It doesn’t seem to deter Crowley. 

“I’ve seen what that thing can do first hand. You all should try  _ listening to me. _ ”

Cas and Sam exchange a glance. Sam lifts the cup to Anna’s lips, Cas cradling her head while Sam helps her drink. “Hey, you’re gonna be alright,” he mutters, though his attempts at soothing are somewhat mitigated by the argument unraveling behind them.

“We did try that, if you remember,” Ketch retorts, looking pissed. “You volunteered your crew to try and help fix the mess you made, and the xenomorph slaughtered all of them.”

“That was the Marshal’s doing, not mine.”

That’s enough to provoke Ketch into leaving the door, striding over to the cell and dragging open the hatch to glare inside. “It was  _ because  _ you didn’t listen to the Marshall. That’s why we had to throw you back in here. Or need I remind you you’re what brought the creature on board in the first place?”

“Maybe if you’d treated my mother sooner, you’d have caught it before it turned into this!”

“And maybe if you hadn’t destroyed our docking gear we’d have been able to evacuate!”

It’s turned into a shouting match. From over by the console, Kevin rounds on them. “Guys, quit it! I need quiet to direct the Marshal. If you’re going to argue, do it so that I can’t hear you.”

Maybe it’s the shock of being yelled at by someone half their age, but they both fall silent. Ketch seems irked. Young or not, Kevin still outranks him.

It looks like one or both of them might try for the last word, before the silence is broken by a moan from Anna. 

Crowley smirks. “Oh, she’s not sounding good.”

Blood has soaked through her bandages, and Cas looks over urgently to where Ketch is standing. “You, do you have medical training?”

The soldier seems taken aback, then blinks, suddenly unsure of himself. “Battlefield medicine.”

“Good enough. I need your help.” Castiel gestures to him.

Ketch hesitates a moment, uncertain how that fits in with his orders, then decides he can hardly let a company employee die on his watch. He crosses to them. “What do you need?”

As he does so, Sam sees Anna’s eyes crack open briefly, glance in his direction, then slip closed.

“I wouldn’t trust them,” Crowley says quietly.

Only Sam seems to hear. For a moment, he’s torn between wanting to help Anna and seeing what Crowley has to say, then as Ketch pushes him out of the way to reach the medical kit, he decides to back off. Sam takes advantage of Ketch’s distraction and crosses back to the cell.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sam hisses, giving a concerned glance back over his shoulder. Even for a redhead, Anna’s looking frighteningly pale.

“They’re company employees. I wouldn’t trust any of them. I’ve heard what’s on that flight recorder.”

That suddenly gets Sam’s attention. “What?” His head whips back around, eyes fixated on the man the other side of the door. “How? It’s encrypted.”

Crowley smirks. “It is. But I happened to have a hacker on my crew. Devilishly good, you could say. He took a crack at decoding the signal before we even went down to pick it up. Got a partial decryption, thought it might be something of interest to the company or salvage we could sell for profit. Wouldn’t have gone to retrieve it if we didn’t.”

Sam’s pulse has suddenly spiked. He leans in close, keeping his voice down. “Where did you find it?”

“Planet designation LV-426. Absolute hellhole. That’s where my mother got infected with the parasite that brought that thing on board. Would have steered clear if we knew everything that was on that box. Of course, we didn’t get the full decryption until it was too late.”

“Why? What was on it?”

Crowley’s smirk widens. “Oh, you’re gonna have to give a little to get for that. I’ll make you a deal: you get me out of here, and I’ll tell you everything I know.”

Sam’s eyes narrow. “Why should I trust you?”

“I’m a man of my word. I keep my deals.”

Sam’s cautious. Of course, he should be. In fact, he should probably be slamming the hatch door in Crowley’s face. But overriding everything there’s a burning need to  _ know,  _ to find out the truth about what happened to his mother ten years ago, and here’s a man offering immediate answers.

“I can’t get you out,” Sam whispers. “Henriksen has the keys.”

“Henriksen is hunting a xenomorph,” Crowley says. “ _ Tran  _ has the keys.”

Sam’s eyes widen. He glances over shoulder towards Kevin at the desk, turned away from them and watching the screens.

“Right side of the chair,” Crowley hints, and as Kevin turns to view another camera feed Sam sees it: the ring of keys attached to his belt. “You get me that, and I’ll tell you everything.”

Sam bites his lip, for a moment torn as his gaze dances between Crowley, and Anna, and Kevin. He shouldn’t trust Crowley, but then, he doesn’t know what reason he has to trust any of them.

Sam goes to stand behind Kevin’s chair.

\---

They clear the transit station and make it to the medical bay without incident. Kevin had to direct them past a band of looters a few corridors back with orders from Henriksen not to engage, but other than that, Dean’s motion sensor has remained disconcertingly silent. He almost wishes that he’d encounter  _ something  _ just to prove there’s someone still alive in this part of the station, instead of just a trail of corpses.

“Got your position,” Kevin’s voice relays to all of them over the headsets. “The elevator’s further up ahead. Take the next left and watch the vent covers.”

They’re approaching from a different direction than earlier, relying on Kevin tracking their position to get them as far as possible. “Losing your signal,” he warns as the pass the x-ray station, the radiation shields causing interference.

“Winchester, you know the way from here?” Henriksen asks, and Dean glances up at the metal vent shafts running across the ceiling.

He nods. “Yeah.”

He takes the lead as the team follows him towards the elevator, heading past the nurse’s station, and despite all good sense telling him not to he glances inside to see if Meg’s body’s still there.

It isn’t, a blood trail leading away in the direction they’re headed, and Dean thinks that’s even worse.

“Alright, this is it,” he says as they reach the elevator. “Two levels down.”

Henriksen glances at the LED by the call button, not illuminated. “Tran, this still online?”

“ _ I can get it for you, sir.” _

They can’t have been waiting for more than a few seconds when they all hear it: the scrabbling in the vents overhead. Each of them tense, weapons raised as they follow the sound. It moves, down through the walls, then curves back round them before dropping to silence. A beat, then they all hear the clang followed by a hiss.

Henriksen gestures hurriedly for them all to back away. “It’s in the elevator shaft. Moore, Davies, cover the door.” They drop to defensive positions, weapons aimed, nowhere to take cover. “If it comes this way, we need to drive it back along this corridor to the ambulance dock.”

There are more sounds from inside the shaft, and Dean holds his breath, knuckles white where he grips onto the flamethrower. That thing’s face is the last thing he ever wants to see again, but at the same time he’s gunning for it to come, ready to hurt it. 

“Tran, can you stop the elevator?” Henriksen hisses. “Get the doors open. Clean line of fire.”

“ _ Wilco, sir,”  _ comes the reply.

There’s a grinding noise from inside the shaft, then everything falls silent. A second passes in what feels like an eternity, then the door begins to crack open.

Dean tightens his finger on the trigger.

There’s nothing there.

For a moment, all of them stare into the darkened space beyond the doorway, confused and apprehensive as they wonder if the creature is lurking somewhere in the shadows. Then a screech comes from above them.

Dean wrenches the flamethrower up, heart in his mouth as he fires in panic and unleashes a burst of flame at the vents overhead. He isn’t the only one. There’s a peppering of rifle fire, pummeling his ears, then the barbed, inky black shape of the creature drops down from the ceiling. It hisses, claws reaching for the man nearest - Davies - and he scrambles away, though not before its slash severs the fuel line between the tank and Moore’s flamethrower. “Shit!”

There’s a horrible moment as it looks like Davies is about to become the xenomorph’s next kill, then Henriksen steps up, roaring incoherently as he blasts as the xenomorph with fire of his own. It screeches in fury and rounds on him, exposing its fuel-sprayed front to the blast. Gasoline ignites, and suddenly the creature is engulfed in flame.

Its shrieks are blood-curdling. Dean looks on in horror as its jaws widen in what might be a scream of pain, then it snaps its second set of jaws and gallops away, a burning beacon disappearing down the hall.

“Don’t let it get away!” Henriksen yells, not stopping while Bradbury helps Davies up as he gives chase. “The ambulance dock is back this way. Tran - get us directions.”

“ _ No visual,”  _ Kevin replies. “ _ The dock will be the first right in 100 yards--what the hell is that heat signature?” _

“Follow it,” Henriksen says bluntly, and his team have recouped themselves and are in pursuit again.

Dean legs work on autopilot, keeping up with the group though his brain is still in shock. He can’t quite process what just happened, how close that was, and how utterly useless he’d been. He grits his teeth and tells himself to focus.

“Alright, new tactics,” Henriksen says as they reach the junction, eyes darting for any sign of the xenomorph. “It’s gonna be harder to herd it with two flamethrowers. We need a lure. Someone’s gonna have to lead it through the ambulance front entrance and escape out the back, or vice versa.”

His gaze turns to Dean, who swallows nervously, then he seems to change his mind and instead turns to Moore and Bradbury. He hands his flamethrower over to Moore. “Take the route round the back. If it comes our way, we’ll herd it from the front. Tran, any sign of it?”

_ “I have visual,”  _ Kevin replies. “ _ I don’t know what you did to it, sir, but it doesn’t seem hurt, just pissed. You need to get it down the corridor on your right, then second left towards the docks. Be careful, sir. It seems to be heading back your way.” _

Henriksen nods grimly. “Davies, Winchester, with me. Let’s go.”

\---

Anna’s woken up. She’s conscious, lucid, though still trembling as she clutches at a glass of water while Cas hovers by her, her face pale. It’s freed up Ketch again, whose eyes are back watching Kevin’s screens from by the door. It’s making it harder for Sam to sneak the keys away unnoticed.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, stepping away for a moment to check on Anna.

She gives him a slight nod. “Better, I think. Your brother shouldn’t have done that, you know.” Her voice is small, weak. “God, this is going to cost the company a fortune…”

“Better a fortune than any more lives,” Sam says, and turns back to Kevin. He leans in close, peering at the camera feeds over his shoulder. If Kevin’s put out, he doesn’t show it with any more than a blink.

Sam leans on the back of his chair and snakes a hand towards the keys.

\---

Dean can smell gasoline in the air as they draw closer to the ambulance dock. He can hear the rattling in the vents again, turning to scrabbling on the metal floor that draws louder, and instinctively he lets out a blast of flame as they round a corner.

It proves to be the right decision. There’s a screech, then a shape that moves too fast for him to even properly focus on darts across his vision and retreats down the corridor. It isn’t on fire anymore. Best as Dean can tell, the flames have hardly done much damage, though at the very least he’s relieved it doesn’t seem to want to get close.

Approving, Henriksen nods. “Good work, Winchester.” The sense of satisfaction it gives Dean counts for very little in the grand scheme of things, but he supposes it’s something. “We’re heading in the right direction. Cover the exit. Davies and I will drive it your way with rifle fire.” Henriksen orders. “Just make sure you get it on board that ambulance.”

Dean nods, and suddenly wonders if this his how his father had felt during his time with the Marines. “Yes, sir.”

Henriksen doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to. He glances at Davies, gives a sharp jerk of his head, and the team split.

\---

Back when Sevastopol was actually in a fit state for human habitation, the CCTV was probably able to cover every square foot of space. Now, the frequent screens of static or “No signal” errors where cameras have gone down are driving Sam’s anxiety through the roof as he tries to keep up with the team, figure out where his brother is.

Kevin seems to be keeping up with it no problem. The man is practically a GPS, somehow seeming to know where each member of the team is, matching their position signal to the active camera feeds almost instantly as he tracks their movement through the station. All Sam can feel is worry as he sees the grainy black shape of the creature pass across the screens, and desperately figure out where his brother is in relation.

He still hasn’t seen it up close. All his encounters have been from a distance in the dark, hiding in the vents where the sound of its hisses and scrabbling claws echo hauntingly from the metal walls. He’s still seen enough.

When the motion tracking from Dean almost seems ready to collide with that of the xenomorph, Sam’s heart leaps into his mouth. He sees it play out on the feed Kevin pulls up on his computer, silent except for what Sam overhears over the headset. 

There’s a blast of light, throwing off the camera’s focus as Dean unleashes a jet of flame in the creature’s direction, then the xenomorph recoils and scampers away down the corridor. Sam feels a rush of pride.

He bites his lip and hopes the feeling isn’t about to turn sour.

\---

“Moore, I’m in position,” Dean relays over the intercom, crouching by the doorway with his flamethrower primed. He glances up at the vent opening overhead. “If it comes this way, I’ll drive it towards you.”

“Copy,” she relays back. “Standing by.”

It takes a few minutes for him to hear from the other subteam again, his own breathing roaring in his ears as he tries to anticipate what’s coming. Then, from somewhere around the corner, Dean hears bursts of gunfire. Flashes of red illuminating the walls. There are shrieks, human cries drawing nearer as he knows pushing the xenomorph towards him, and then there’s a scream and a spray of red splatters the wall.

Dean flinches. It’s not even the first time he’s seen the creature kill up close, but it still takes a moment to sink in. Was that…?

“Winchester!” Henriksen’s voice roars as Dean sees him round the corner. Davies is gone, then. 

Dean straightens up, lifts the flamethrower, prepared as he waits for the xenomorph to follow and he’ll drive it straight through the ambulance door to his right. Then he sees the look on Henriksen’s face. The xenomorph isn’t behind him.

“Shit.” Dean wrenches the flamethrower up again, and not a moment too soon as the creature drops from the vents, screeching as it meets the oncoming burst of fire.

It still isn’t enough. Something makes contact, knocking him to the floor and Dean scrambles back, losing his grip on the weapon as he desperately tries to get away. The creature advances.

This is the closest he’s seen it. Face on, no pane of glass between them as it opens it mouth, saliva dripping from its knife-blade teeth as it snaps its inner set of jaws. There’s barely any trace of the fuel residue save for a few burned flecks of matte black clinging to its otherwise glossy head. The fire’s barely hurt it.

“ _ Shit, _ ” Dean shouts again, twisting away and barely escaping the reach of those second jaws before he manages to snatch up the hose again and sent another burst of flame into its face. It only buys him time. 

There’s an ineffectual spray of bullets from Henriksen, glancing off the creature’s hide as though it’s tank armor, and Dean picks himself up and runs the only way he can: into the ambulance module.

The xenomorph sees its prey and follows.

“Moore, it’s heading your way!” He can already see her through the back exit of the module, Bradbury not far behind past the doorway, and he knows he’s close. All he has to do is make it out with enough time to spare, put enough space between him and the creature that she can slam the lock shut the instant he’s out while Henriksen closes it from the other side. 

He’s never sprinted like this before in his life, can hear the claws gaining on him from behind as his breath tears at his throat. He’s only meters away when he sees the green light of “open” by the door turn to red.

“Fuck,  _ no!”  _ It’s sliding closed too soon, hydraulics giving a hiss, and Dean screams into the earpiece. “Wait, I need longer! I’m not out!”

It makes no difference. The door slams shut. “ _ No!”  _

Dean reaches the door, slams on the metal with an incoherent yell. Desperately, he mashes the interior release button, but like he already knew, it’s been locked from the outside. Through the porthole, he sees Moore’s face, thinks she looks horrified, maybe reaching for the button to open it again, but he can’t really tell before he has to turn and blast another burst of fire at the xenomorph to buy enough time to get away. Fuck, but he’s running out of fuel, and now he’s trapped with it in an enclosed space.

“Henriksen, I’m still in here!” All he can think to do is turn back and try for the front entrance again, but if Moore was trying to get the doors open, it hasn’t worked. There’s no reply on the headset. “Henriksen!”

He can’t keep it away for long. “ _ Henriksen!” _

Dean reaches the front door, pounds on it furiously. The Marshal is right there the other side of the porthole, still with his hand outstretched on what Dean can only assume is the lock. His expression is grim, almost pained, but determined.

Over his earpiece, Dean hears the words he reads on the Marshal’s lips. “ _ Jettison it.” _

The floor suddenly seems to be ripped out from under him. For a moment he doesn’t quite understand, brain flooded with panic. “I’m sorry, Dean.” Henriksen is looking right at him, though Dean can see his face receding as the module’s ejection arm extends. “I had to. It was too close. I couldn’t risk letting it escape again.”

Even through the fear, Dean feels a sudden white-hot burst of fury. “You bastard.”

Henriksen says nothing. There’s shouting over the earpiece, maybe protests from the other members of the team, but all Dean hears is the bone chilling hiss that comes from right by his ear. 

He wonders if that was the last thing his father had ever heard too.

Dean turns, blinks through the tears as he tries to stare the creature down. It mouth opens, and with a grim acceptance, Dean clenches his jaw as he waits for its extending tongue to pierce its skull.

Then the world turns upside down.


	7. Chapter 7

Sam’s fingers curl tighter around the keys. Kevin hasn’t noticed, transfixed as he is on the camera feeds and schematics and voices in his ear, as Sam slips the fob from his belt and subtly hides it in his palm. He’s leaning in close enough to hear the output from Kevin’s headset, keeping one eye on the screens. It’s hard to tell the soldiers apart in their tactical gear, while Dean stands out in his WY engineer’s overalls, flamethrower raised as he rounds a corner.

Bradbury and Moore are covering another exit to the module. Opposite, adjacent, Sam has no idea based on the position of the cameras, but his heart leaps into his throat as he sees the creature dart across the same screen his brother’s just vacated. It’s in the ambulance module with him. Sam’s fists ball tighter, the keys digging into his palm.

_Please let this work. Let Dean be okay. Please._

Over Kevin’s earpiece, he faintly hears the words, “ _Jettison it.”_

Sam’s mouth goes dry. He can see Dean still in the room, scrambling for the door while a jet of steam keeps the xenomorph distracted. He’s out of fuel. “What’s happening?”

Kevin knows. Sam can tell by the look on his face. “They’re ejecting the ambulance.”

Panic floods through him. “They can’t! Dean’s still in there.”

“I know.” Kevin swallows. “The creature’s trapped. They have to do it now.”

“No!” Sam shouts, his deal with Crowley all but forgotten. He doesn’t care. Not if he loses Dean. “You can override it from here.”

Kevin bites his lip, apologetic, but resolved. “Ejection chambers pressurised,” he says into his mic. Sam hears shouts over the earpiece.

“ _Henriksen, you bastard!”_ It’s Dean.

“No!” Sam darts forward, grabs hold of Kevin’s headset and wrenches it half-off, yelling into the mic. “Dean! Dean, I’m coming for you!”

How he’ll do that, he has no idea, but he’s not standing by watching this.

From somewhere close behind him, he hears the sound of a gun cocking. Sam turns, sees Ketch’s face staring down at him from the other end of the barrel of a rifle.

“Sam, step away.” His voice is soft. Dangerous. Sam licks his lips.

“Ketch!” Somewhere nearby, both Cas and Anna are shouting protests. Sam doesn’t care. Not if they won’t help Dean.

“Let the Marshal do his job,” Ketch says, and Sam feels a sudden, burning hatred flood through him. He glances down at the rifle.

It’s not a deterrent enough. Sam lifts his good arm, swipes the barrel away with a snarl while simultaneously launching a kick at Ketch’s shins.

Clearly, Ketch hadn’t expected him to actually have the nerve. His slack aim goes off and he lets out a cry as his right knee buckles, hissing in pain, then Sam rakes the keys over his face for good measure as he drops to the floor.

Now Cas and Anna’s protests have taken on a different nature, but Sam pays them no heed. He has to be fast. The keys get abandoned on the floor, useless, as he vaults the desk, snatching up the flight recorder and bolting for the door.

At least one of them will go after him. He knows they will, but there’s one place they can’t follow. Behind him, he hears Cas’ voice crying out “Sam!” and footsteps racing to catch up, but he’s already come up on the auxiliary vent opening at the end of the corridor. He hits the release and scrambles up to clamber inside. Even he barely fits, but it’s enough to get him away as his only thought is making it to Dean.

Back at the Marshal’s station, Ketch hisses in pain and straightens up, wiping blood from his cheek. He glances over at the door as if hoping Sam and Cas might magically reappear, then at Anna, and finally at Kevin, who’s looking both panicked and stunned. “Uh, sir…” He’s trying to relay over the intercom. The ambulance module is long gone. “Castiel and Sam have run for it. Sam has the flight recorder.”

“ _Leave them_ ,” comes the faint reply. “ _We got the xenomorph. It doesn’t matter_.”

Kevin gives a helpless glance at Ketch, throwing up his hands. “The xenomorph’s gone.”

That should be good news. Ketch turns back to Anna, who’s trying to prop herself up on her good side, wincing through the glare she shoots in his direction. “Aren’t you going to get after them?”

“Not in my orders.”

“Anything happens to them, the company will come down on you hard.”

“I don’t work for Weyland-Yutani.”

In pain though she is, Anna shoots him a fierce glare. “Maybe not, but you don’t want to face Weyland-Yutani’s lawyers, and I should know. I’m one of them.”

Ketch grits his teeth. The conflict plays out of his face, torn between the best course of action, then with a huff he turns and runs after them.

\---

The whole world is spinning. Gravity’s gone, both the xenomorph and Dean plus a ton of medical equipment sent hurtling through the air from the force of ejection as the ambulance module is blasted into space. He can still hear it shrieking, as desperate as he is to find some semblance of _upright_ as the module spirals into chaos. No way had they followed the proper ejection procedure. The only way the module should be spinning like this is if they never let the ejection arm get to full reach, but maybe, Dean thinks that’s the reason he’s still alive.

He has to get out.

The intercom has turned to static. Maybe he’s out of range, or maybe Henriksen has deliberately cut him off, but it doesn’t matter. As his surroundings cycle round and round in his vision, he sees it: the light by the door has turned from red to amber. The lock’s off.

It’s the lifeline that he needs. Among all the equipment hurtling around the ambulance, Dean’s eyes search desperately for something that could help him, and land fortuitously on a paramedic’s EVA suit tethered to the wall. When the next turn of the cylindrical module sends him slamming against the side again, he does his best to grasp onto something solid, finding a tethering strap fixed securely in place and holding firmly on.

Fuck knows how he’s going to do this while continuously spinning in zero gravity and avoiding one pissed off xenomorph, but all he can do is try.

His shoulders scream in protest as Dean drags himself towards it, unclipping the straps and forcing his limbs into the suit. That proves to be the easy part. When it comes to trying to pull on the helmet, he find himself crossing paths with the xenomorph again.

Random turbulence sends it hurtling in his direction, its claws reach for him, and Dean does his best to kick off from the side and twist out of the way. It partly works, its reach falling short by inches, but then it hits the ceiling and its claws find purchase in the mesh surface. It steadies itself as it grips on, then Dean sees its head turn in his direction. It’s coming for him.

“ _Shit.”_

The flamethrower is still hurtling around alongside all the other untethered equipment, and Dean has to make three ill-timed grabs for it before he finally grasps on. Each turn of the module sends him closer to where the xenomorph has itself anchored to the floor, and he tries to grab for the straps on the walls again to drag himself closer to the exits. It’s harder in the padded glove of the EVA suit, but he manages it.

Through the porthole, he can see the shape of Sevastopol intermittently appearing and vanishing as the module turns. It isn’t receding as quickly as it should, the yaw of the station’s motion having reduced the ejection velocity. That helps Dean, but he has to time things right.

Gradually, the xenomorph is dragging itself closer to him, undeterred by the small pieces of equipment that keep colliding with it. He’s only going to get one shot.

God, he hopes there’s enough fuel left in the flamethrower to pull this off.

The xenomorph is yards away. Sevastopol appears in the porthole, Dean counts two seconds, then hits the door release.

Depressurisation is immediate. He feels himself being sucked out, a sharp tug at his waist as it pulls on his center of mass, then he’s flying backwards towards the station. He timed it right, he realises with a sense of relief, heading mostly in the direction of Sevastopol even if he’s going to hit it it somewhere lower down than he’d left.

Of course, the xenomorph is getting sucked out too. The oxygen concentration rushing from the doorway proves to be just enough. Dean grasps the flamethrower’s trigger and squeezes.

The last of the fuel ignites, the pressure difference of the vacuum making it spray out and engulf the creature just as it exits the module’s bottleneck. Maybe it shrieks again, but Dean can’t hear it anymore.

There can’t be much thrust in the blast, but it’s enough to knock the creature off course, and with a sense of relief Dean sees it flail its limbs as it joins the ambulance hurtling off into space. The bright glow of the burning fuel is shortlived, but it’s not like it’s going to survive long in the vacuum of space anyway.

“Yeah, take that you fucker,” Dean hisses, and a sudden, intense elation swells in his chest.

 _Don’t celebrate too soon,_ he reminds himself, _you still need to get back on board._

He swings the empty gas tank to give himself enough momentum to turn not a moment too soon. The giant metal structure hurtles up behind him, the fuel line catches on an extended rig, and as it tears from Dean’s grasp, it slows him down just enough to lessen the impact as he finally hits the station’s out wall. He doesn’t grab on firmly enough at first, bounces, and then finally finds himself able to make purchase on one of the structural support poles running between the station’s three towers.

His muscles take the strain, then everything falls still. Literally every inch of him is sore, screaming from either bruises or twists or sprains, but he’s alive, and he’ll take that.

Looking up, Dean sees there’s an airlock hatch literally ten meters above him, and lets out a giddy laugh. He has no idea if that’s the first lucky break he’s caught today or just one in a long line of many, but either way, he’s picturing the look of joy and utter disbelief on Sam’s face when he sees him again.

Dean fixes his gaze determinedly on the hatch entrance and begins to pull himself towards it.

\---

“Sam!” Ketch calls out into the abandoned hallways of the station. “Sam! I’m sorry about your brother, but there’s no point you going and getting yourself hurt too now, is there?”

He doesn’t get a response. Honestly, he has no idea where the boy has gone, and he can’t even find Castiel, but he figures it must be this way somewhere. If the kid has reached the transit line, Tran would know about it, and from the radio silence, Ketch figures that hasn’t happened.

He heaves a sigh of frustration. “Sam, just come back with me to the Marshal’s station and we can smooth this all out. There’s going to be trouble with Weyland-Yutani if you don’t.” Mostly trouble for him, but Ketch doesn’t say that.

“You are distressed.” The robotic, emotionless voice comes from off to his left as Ketch bypasses a junction, and he rolls his eyes. He turns to see the mannequin-esque shape of a Working Joe approaching him, its eyes red.

“Not this again. Don’t tell me you’ve had the same malfunction as the others. I really don’t have the bullets to waste on you.”

“Allow me to help,” it says without acknowledging his words, and reaches a hand out for him.

Ketch knows where this is going. Best to put a stop to it now. He raises his rifle and sprays a burst of rounds towards the android.

A bloom of white synthetic fluid erupts from its neck as he goes for the headshot, knocking its plastic skull off its shoulders, but that doesn’t stop it advancing. “Violence is unacceptable,” he hears from its voicebox, the sound quality having turned like an old radio with too much interference.

“Really?” Ketch shoots another couple of rounds towards it, then, seeing that the android’s undeterred, turns his rifle to swing the butt towards its torso. It stumbles back, Ketch feels a moment’s satisfaction, and then without warning, sparks erupt in his vision as something hits his head hard from behind.

He goes down, losing his grip on the rifle as he gasps and falls to his knees. He shakes his head vigorously, tries to clear it as he looks up again to see another of the Working Joes, identical to the first, looking down at him with glowing red eyes. “There is really no need for this,” it says calmly.

“Bloody stop it, then,” he retorts, and goes for the pistol at his belt.

He puts a shot through its eye, apparently manages to hit its CPU as it crumples, only to reveal another synthetic directly behind it. No, wait...two.

“What the…?” Now this is really getting odd. Nervous now, Ketch raises his hand to fire another shot, and suddenly finds his arm being grabbed and twisted by yet another Working Joe emerging from the corridor at his back.

It wrenches at his arm and he screams as he hears his elbow snap, the weapon falling from his hands. Another blow lands to the side of his head and he falls to the floor, tasting blood. Shit, no, this shouldn’t be happening. “Tran! Get me backup!” he tries to yell into his earpiece. “The synthetics have bloody lost it!” Then he realises the blow has snapped his mic clean off.

“Shit,” Ketch murmurs, lifting his head and blinking to see there’s a whole horde of them, each of them staring calmly down at him like demented, red eyed clones. He’s afraid.

“Allow me to help,” one of them repeats, and he desperately scrambles for the gun with his good hand as they begin to close in. He doesn’t make it.

The blows start to come, too many for him to even distinguish one from the next as their plastic hands pummel into him. There’s no-one left on the abandoned station to hear his screams, or maybe just no-one who cares.

He’s unconscious before his body hits the floor.

* * *

* * *

 

Dean can see the bruises beginning to blossom on his forearms once he has the spacesuit off and rolled up the sleeves of his overalls. It almost takes him by surprise. He barely remembers being hit by the falling equipment while spinning around inside the ambulance, adrenaline dulling whatever pain he should have felt. Still, he’s sure there’ll be worse when he gets chance to have a proper look at himself later. Right now, he has other priorities.

“Henriksen!” he spits into the earpiece as he begins to make his way back through the station, trying to figure out where he is. “Henriksen, you son of a bitch. I’m still alive.” He waits, almost hoping for a response just so he can unleash his anger and yell some more, but there’s nothing. “Goddammit!”

He lashes out with a kick, hits the wall, then hisses in pain. He can’t afford to lose it now. He has to get back to Sam, let his brother know he’s alright.

Damn, this place needs maps.

He keeps going, having a vague idea that he needs to make it up several levels and inwards in order to get back to the Marshal’s station. He’s still trembling, struggling to shake of the shock of what just happened and the pain in his limbs increasing as the adrenaline rush gradually wears off. At least he’s breathing easier now, knowing the worst he has to worry about is looters and rogue synthetics, but as far as he can tell, this sector of the station is completely abandoned.

The way back to the transit line is signposted as he comes up on a major corridor, and Dean follows it down towards “ _Station Zeta (Lines A + D)_ ”. It’s eerie, how completely abandoned the station seems, the emergency lights glowing dimly and life support systems giving a soft hum in the background. He feels a pang as he remembers how similar it had felt when he’d first arrived. At least then John had been with him.

The path takes him down a gently curving corridor, the walls lined with stacks of crates which he assumes were at one point awaiting transportation as they populate the route down to the transit car. Now he doesn’t suppose there’s anyone left on the station who needs their contents, whatever they may be. Goods for sale, spare parts, luxury tech… Anything essential seems to have been claimed by the looters already.

That’s the thought crossing his mind when he hears it. It’s not a soft noise, rather a loud crash, like someone knocking something from a great height, and Dean freezes. Maybe this sector isn’t so empty after all.

It must be looters, he figures, come to raid the crates and he goes still as he listens carefully for any clue what they want. Not all of them can be like Trenton. It might be safe for him to continue, or he can look for a vent cover again…

A beat passes in silence, Dean strains to make out any voices, then the next sound he hears makes his blood run cold. A soft hiss like a viper, followed by the scrabbling of claws, and an all too familiar black shape emerges from round the curve of the hallway.

At first, Dean thinks he must be stuck in some horrible nightmare. Then, “ _Shit.”_

Dean darts for cover behind a stack of crates, trying to breathe quietly though his chest has suddenly become tight. He presses the button on his headset again. “Henriksen!” No response. “Henriksen! Tran! Either of you come in. I’m not fucking around. It’s still here.” He dares glance out from his hiding place for just a moment, peering round the corner in time to see a black, barbed tail disappearing round the bend in the corridor. “Repeat, the alien is still here.” Still nothing. “ _Fuck_!”

He practically wants to throw the headset in frustration as he wonders what to do next. He couldn’t give less of a shit about Henriksen, but he needs to get back to the Marshal’s station before the creature does. Before it gets to Sam.

 _This doesn’t make any sense,_ Dean thinks as he crawls out of his hiding space, eyes going to the vent covers in the walls for a safe place to climb through. That thing had been on the ambulance module with him. He _knows_ it had, and it definitely hadn’t followed him through the airlock. So how the fuck is it still here?

Dean swallows. Now he _needs_ to get back to Sam. And soon. They have to find a way off this station, and it’s down to him to keep his little brother safe.

Cautiously, Dean climbs up into a nearby auxiliary vent and begins the crawl towards the transit line.


	8. Chapter 8

Sam pushes open the vent cover then drops down awkwardly into the hallway, not quite managing to lower himself steadily enough to keep his balance. It’s hard one-handed, when he’s trying to keep the black box balanced inside his sling, and he falls to his knees before picking himself up.

The area of the station surrounding him is unfamiliar, though of course, most of it is. Sam looks about him, swallowing nervously as he wonders what the hell he’s going to do. He has to find Dean. His brother isn’t dead. He  _ knows  _ it. And hell, dad can’t be dead either. He’s sure of it. It’s the hope he’s clinging onto as he begins to wander further through the station, wondering how the hell he’s going to find either of them. Maybe he’s can make it to the life support center and look for all the heat signatures of everyone on board?

Is that a thing? He isn’t sure.

Sam keeps walking. The area of the station he’s in seems to be one of the more industrial sectors as opposed to the warehouses and human facilities he’d seen when he first arrived. He knows Sevastopol houses a manufacturing center in one of its towers: Seegson, he thinks is the name of the company. Mass production synthetics as opposed to Weyland-Yutani’s more unique bespoke models, if he remembers right.

His suspicions are confirmed when he passes a large set of industrial double doors emblazoned with the Seegson logo. He was right - he must be in the manufacturing plant. It seems to be keycard access only, but there’s an intercom point in the wall right next to the card reader. Well, he supposes it’s worth a shot.

Sam crosses to the wall and presses the button to speak. “Hello?”

He isn’t really expecting a reply, and is surprised when a voice greets him. “How may I help you?” 

The voice is robotic, artificial, and Sam figures he’s either talking to a synthetic or the station’s AI. “Um, yeah.” He’s encountered plenty of synthetics before, but this still feels a little weird. “I need to find my brother. He’s somewhere on this station. I was wondering if you could help me?”

“One moment, please.”

That all was surprisingly easy. Sam blinks, a little unsettled as the doors begin to slide open, and he wonders if it could possibly all be that straightforward. A synthetic steps out to greet him, plain white skin like a store window mannequin and dressed in a plain grey Seegson jumpsuit. It looks down at him with glowing white eyes. “You seem distressed,” it remarks.

Sam can’t help but find that odd. “Well, yeah, some asshole just tried to kill my brother. I just need your help to find him,” he says, and the android takes a step forward.

“Allow me to help.”

Sam should have backed off. He realises it a second too late, should have trusted his instincts that something was off and got the hell out of dodge, but the Working Joe reaches out a hand towards him. Instead of closing benevolently on his shoulder as he’d half expected, it goes for his throat. 

Sam’s eyes widen, he tries to back away, but he’s left it too late. The android’s grip closes tight around neck. It’s eyes turn red.

Sam gasps. He tries to fight, throwing a punch with his good arm, lashing out with a kick, but he’s short and skinny and the synthetic lifts him off the floor like a ragdoll. He chokes, feet thrashing, fingers clawing at the grip around his throat, but to no avail. Shadows start to creep at the corner of his vision.

They haven’t quite made it to obscure his sight completely before he sees something collide hard with the android’s head from behind. It lets go, head twisting obscenely on its shoulders, and Sam drops to the floor. He gasps for breath, a hand rubbing at his aching throat, then he looks up to see Castiel throw a punch at the synthetic’s face.

_ Cas…? _

The Working Joe’s head twists again to the sound of crumpling plastic, then it advances on Cas and throws a punch of its own. Cas blocks the first, but doesn’t react quickly enough as the synthetic lifts its other fist in rapid succession and makes contact with his skull, and Sam sees him stumble sideways.

He recovers quickly, grabbing the android’s wrist as it goes for another blow and twisting. Sam’s shocked by the display of strength as he hears it pop, a sudden burst of white fluid erupting from its shoulder joint, then it’s other hand backhands Cas straight in the face. “Violence is unnecessary,” it says, advancing, but it’s too slow.

Cas lunges with both hands, grabs the synthetic in a headlock, and wrestles. They both struggle, evenly matched as Sam watches them stumble across the floor in a contest of brute strength. The synthetic claws at Cas’ face, Cas twists away, squeezes tighter, before giving one final wrench.

The synthetic’s head pops clean off. There’s a burst of white spray, a crackle of short circuits, then the android drops motionless to the floor. Cas straightens up, not even out of breath, and then turns to Sam.

“Are you alright?” he offers a hand to the teen, who tentatively accepts as Cas helps him to his feet. He’s confused enough by what’s going on with the AI, but can’t believe Cas came after him to  _ help _ . Let alone was able to decapitate a Working Joe with his bare hands. All without breaking a sweat.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Sam gasps, staring down at the synthetic body on the floor. “What’s with…” The question dies on his lips as he looks up and sees Cas’ face.

The WY rep’s nose is crooked, clearly broken from the Working Joe’s punch, but that isn’t what makes Sam start. The fluid dribbling down from it over his lips isn’t crimson, as Sam had expected, but rather, milky white.

\--

Dean’s blood is boiling as he makes his way back to the Marshal’s station. His limbs are still shaking, adrenaline pumping through his system as he tries to shake off the shock of almost being jettisoned into space.  _ Fuck Henriksen. Fuck the manipulative, lying bastard. _

He’s ready to let rip the minute he storms through the doors, anger almost boiling over, but as he enters the station, the sight that greets him is immediately sobering.

Bodies lay on the floor, blood trickling from caved in skulls and pulverised faces. He knows them from the uniforms: Bradbury, Moore, Ketch. A chill runs down Dean’s spine.  _ What the fuck happened? _

He ventures in further, dreading what he might see as he paces round the console to examine more of the carnage, but none of the bodies appear to be Sam. He recognises the Marshal, lying slumped over the comms unit with his head twisted at an unnatural angle. His eyes are open, glassy.

Dean feels a ripple of fear as his senses suddenly heighten. He reaches out to take the rifle still in Henriksen’s grasp, prying it carefully from the Marshal’s stiff fingers and checking there’s still rounds in the chamber. It’s loaded.

The rounds are useless against the xenomorph, but it instills him with a little more confidence nonetheless. Dean backs himself up against a wall, closing off the possibility of danger coming from behind as he scans the scene once again. It doesn’t look like it was the alien that did this. Whatever it was, it didn’t appear to use claws. Or teeth.

A sudden noise sounds from one of the lockers on the far side of the room, and Dean whips up the rifle to point towards it. He almost fires in blind panic, instinct threatening to overrule trigger discipline, but then he hears a familiar voice.

“Dean?”

The voice sounds as shocked as he is, and equally shaken. “Kevin?”

It’s Henriksen’s deputy, curled up in the locker and looking terrified. He’s clutching his left arm to his chest, blood clearly oozing from a wound in his wrist. “Dean, thank god it’s you. And oh my god, you’re  _ alive? _ ”

Dean blinks, confused yet oddly relieved as he helps the kid climb out, grasping his injured arm gingerly. “Yeah, still here, despite your boss’s best efforts. Why? What happened? This doesn’t look like the creature.”

“What? Oh, no…”

“You know that thing’s still out there?”

Kevin seems dazed, but he nods grimly. “Yeah, Henriksen radioed it in not long after they jettisoned the ambulance. They were trying to decide our next move when…” He trails off.

“When what…?” Dean prompts.

“It was the Working Joes.” Kevin’s still breathing heavily as he tries to make it back to the comfort of his familiar seat by the computer. “They showed up not long after the team got back. It was like they’d had some kind of... _ purge  _ mode activated. Just started slaughtering everybody.”

“And what? You took one blow and hid?”

“Yeah. Nothing else I could do. I swear, there wasn’t. You didn’t see what they were like.” He winces, trying feebly to flex his fingers. The androids did enough damage.

Dean’s stomach ties itself into a knot. “What about Sam? Did you see what happened to him?”

Kevin shakes his head, and Dean fears the worst until he speaks. “No, he was long gone by that point. When Henriksen wanted to jettison the ambulance with you in it, he wouldn’t stand for it. Was yelling over the radio, trying to get him to stop. Castiel tried to argue with the Marshal but when it became clear it wouldn’t work, Sam took off. I don’t know where he went, just grabbed the black box and ran. Think maybe he was gonna try to get to you and bring you back himself. Cas went after him. That was the last I saw of either of them.”

Dean lets out a breath. It’s not relief, not with the xenomorph still out there, but it’s something. Sam is with Cas. He’ll be alright.

Dean casts his gaze over the array of bodies again. In the past few hours, he thinks he’s seen more of them than most people will ever see in a lifetime. “What about Anna?”

Kevin blinks. “What?”

“The girl who last time I saw her could barely walk. She’s not here.” He glances round again, wanting to be sure, but red hair among black helmets would be hard to miss.

“She’s…” Kevin’s voice trails off as he glances over to the holding cell at the back of the room. The door is standing slightly ajar. Kevin suddenly pales. “Shit.”

He darts over to the cell and flings the door open, swearing again when he sees it is indeed empty. “ _ Shit.” _ The next thing Dean knows, and he’s back at the computer, cycling through all his camera feeds in a panic.

Dean doesn’t have time for it. “Fine. Crowley’s  _ your  _ problem. I need to find my brother before some android or the xenomorph does.”

He turns for the door, impatient to find Sam, but Kevin stops him with an urgent plea. “Dean, wait! If Crowley makes it back to the  _ Anesidora,  _ it’s all our problem.”

That makes him pause. Dean turns back, an accusatory eyebrow raised. “The  _ Anesidora?  _ It’s still docked? He can escape on it?”

“No,” Kevin gives a flustered shake of his head. “It isn’t flightworthy. He damaged the hull when he rammed us. But Dean, that thing killed his mother. He wants it dead even more than the Marshal did, and if Henriksen was prepared to blow up part of the station and jettison you into space to try to get rid of it, who knows what Crowley will do.”

Dean feels his mouth go dry. Part of him still wants to yell at Kevin to deal with it, let him get on with getting back to Sam, but then a staticy voice begins to crackle over the comms unit at Kevin’s station.

“ _ Sevastopol, come in. Henriksen? Tran? Anybody? It’s Milton. Tell me you’re there…” _

Dean and Kevin exchange a glance before Kevin stares at the screen in shock. “She’s hailing us from the  _ Anesidora.” _

He opens the comms channel as Dean comes to stand beside him, giving the on-screen soundwaves a dirty look. “ _ Anesidora,  _ this is Tran.”

“ _ Kevin? Oh thank, god. _ ”

It leaves a bitter taste in Dean’s mouth. “Hey, Anna, you sound like you’ve perked up,” he remarks pointedly, and it earns a nervous look from Kevin.

“ _ Dean?”  _ She sounds surprised. “ _ Yeah, I guess Castiel took good care of me. Look, you’ve got to help me. We’re on the  _ Anesidora.  _ Crowley’s gone crazy. He’s initiating the self destruct sequence and I can’t stop him.”  _ She pauses as she hisses in pain, voice panicked. “ _ I need help.” _

“And how the hell did Crowley get out in the first place?” Dean snaps, not caring if he’s wasting time. She’s a liar. A liar and a manipulator, just like the rest of them. Suddenly, he’s more uneasy about Sam being alone with Cas.

“ _ Dean...I don’t know. The synthetics were on a rampage, I guess I thought maybe I’d hide in his cell or something. I didn’t mean for this to happen _ .”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

“ _ Look...please.” _ She’s desperate. “ _ Dean, I swear I’ll explain everything to you, but if this ship self destructs, it’s going to knock Sevastopol out of orbit and take all of you with it.”  _ In the background of the transmission, Dean hears the faint sound of the ship’s Mother beginning to speak. 

_ Self destruct sequence initiated. Self destruct in T minus ten minutes. _

Anna whimpers. “ _ Oh god _ …”

Kevin takes over the comms line, though Dean can see he’s gone pale. “Anna, just hang on. Dean’s gonna come find you.”

Dean gives him a startled look. “Why me?”

Kevin gestures at his hand. “I’m injured, and you need me on comms. Don’t argue, there isn’t time. You need to get down there.”

“How the hell am I meant to reach the docking port in ten minutes?”

“End of the corridor there’s an airlock. Take an EVA suit. You can spacewalk it in two.”

Dean really thinks he’s had enough of spacewalks to last a lifetime. “Alright, fine.” He turns to the door again, hurrying now. “You’d better pray I find my brother alive and well at the end of this, for your sake.” He turns in the direction of the airlock and starts to run.

Kevin has the channel to Dean’s headset open again, forwarding Anna’s transmission to him. “ _ Dean, the manual override won’t work after five minutes. You need to hurry. _ ”

“Yeah, I’m going as fast as I can!” he yells, practically falling into the airlock and ripping an EVA suit from its stand. “Two minutes, okay!” He can hear the alarm blaring over the comms line.

There’s no time to do a thorough check on the suit before he sets off, and Dean finds himself praying that it’s properly sealed as he hits the button to depressurise. “Alright, Kevin, I’m going.” He hits the button by the outer door and the airlock slides open. 

The air pressure has already leveled so that there’s no force tugging him out, but there isn’t time to find a target and take a careful aim with an EVA line as he braces himself against the door. He’s going to have to jump. For the second time in an hour, Dean can hear the blood pounding in his ears as he eyes up the target of the vessel anchored at the docking station three levels below. The  _ Anesidora  _ is at gate A, its main service hatch approximately 100 feet above the boarding passage connecting it to the station.

Only one thing for it. Dean steels himself, takes a breath as he eyes up the target, and jumps.

For a moment, he’s weightless, not so much soaring as he is standing still while the rest of the world rushes past. The arm of the space station rapidly closes in to meet him, and he can already tell he’s wide of the target.

Five seconds. Three. Two… Dean feels the jolt as his body collides with the metal, the suit doing little to buffer the impact, and his hands scrabble for purchase on the ship’s outer shell. There’s a series of rungs leading up to the hatch door, designed for EVA assist, and he grabs one and holds on tightly as his momentum threatens to throw him off course again. Anna’s panicked voice is still ringing in his ears. He has to move fast.

It can only take a few seconds for him to reach the hatch door and clamber inside, but each one is far too long when the self destruct is counting down. He doesn’t bother taking off the EVA suit when he reaches the inner airlock door, only pulling off the helmet as he hurries inside. “Anna!”

Shouting is futile. The blaring alarms are too loud. Even over the headset, he can barely hear her. “Dean, thank god. I’m on the bridge. I don’t know where Crowley’s gone; he said something about the engine room. I think he’s going to try to dump rocket fuel to take out the station’s shielding. Please hurry…” 

She sounds panicked. He knows the layout of the ship well enough. It’s the same class as the  _ Torrens,  _ and from his outside view he knows where to go. “Anna, the self destruct controls, where are they?”

“I’m staring at it!” she yells back. “I’m trying to get the core out but I think Crowley’s jammed it in. Oh, fuck…”

The ship’s Mother blares. “ _ Self destruct in T minus six minutes. Manual override will disable after T minus five minutes.” _

_ “ _ Shit.” He reaches the bridge and slams the button for the door, praying it isn’t locked. It isn’t Dean rushes in. “Anna, you need to pull the lever and twist gently!”

He’s worked on enough ship systems to know what to do, but it’s too late. She’s knelt over the red hatch on the floor wringing her hands in a panic, and Dean pushes her out of the way. She gives a small cry of pain as she lands on her injured side, but there isn’t time to be gentle. Dean flips up the pull switch on the first core’s container and twists. It lifts out smoothly. Only three more cylinders to go.

He’s half way through lifting the second one when Mother speaks again. “ _ Self destruct in T minus five minutes. Manual override disabled _ .”

“ _ Fuck!”  _ Dean yells, panic flooding his veins. There’s no time to waste dithering. He needs a plan. “Where did you say Crowley was? Engine room?”

Anna swallows nervously. “Dean, what…?”

“Self destruct triggers a meltdown in the ship’s power cores. If I siphon enough coolant into the system it should mitigate the damage.” He’s already on his feet. There’s no time to lose. “You get to the controls. Get us undocked.”

“Dean, the hull’s damaged! The ship won’t fly.”

“It doesn’t need to fly, just needs to be detached from the station when the cores detonate.”

Anna looks at him, pale and panicked. “I don’t know how.”

“Figure it out.” He can’t afford to waste time doing it for her. Dean leaves her to it and runs.

Five minutes. Less. He finds the hatch with the ladder running to the lower decks and slides down firefighter-style, glad for the fabric of the EVA suit acting as a buffer to the friction. The engines are two decks above the very bottom, a quad core reactor at the heart of the ship. If anything, the blaring alarms seem louder down here, Mother’s voice even more ominous. “ _ Self destruct in T minus four minutes.” _

He can’t see Crowley. It doesn’t matter. Dean runs.

He’s thanking his lucky stars he knows the layout of the ship, worked on enough engines just like this one that he finds the coolant ducts in seconds. He throws the first valve, opening it as far as it will go before darting to the second one across the engine room floor. “Anna!” he yells into the earpiece. “I’ve disarmed the first core.”

“I think I’ve found the docking controls!” she shouts back, giddy with panic. “I don’t know which one’s disengage…”

“Right now I don’t think it matters if you try all of them,” he says, grunting as he twists the valve on the second core. It’s stiffer than the first, loses him too much time. He sprints to get to the third one, having to vault a pipe and a vent shaft running along the floor before wrenching on it. “If I can get all of them the self destruct should…”

He doesn’t have chance to finish. Pain erupts on the side of his head, vision turning red from more than just the emergency lights as he falls to the floor. Head spinning, he squints up to see Crowley standing over him holding a wrench.

“I can’t let you do that, Dean.”

“You’re fucking crazy.” Dean reaches for something to grab onto to pull himself up, grasps onto a pipe that he can feel heating his palm even through the gloves. “You’re going to kill us all!”

“It’s a sacrifice I’m prepared to make _.”  _ He watches as Dean climbs shakily to his feet, keeping the wrench raised in case he tries anything. “That thing  _ has to die.” _

“Not while my brother’s still on the station.”

There’s a rumble in the floor, both of them briefly stumbling for balance, and Dean realises Anna’s found the undocking controls.

An ironic smile twists on Crowley’s lips. “You should have listened to that recording from your mother when you had chance. She knew. She’d make the exact same call as me.”

“You’re wrong,” Dean spits, though something wrenches inside him as he wonders what was on the black box and if Crowley’s right after all. The need to know is a burning, sickening feeling inside him.

“Why don’t you ask Anna?” Crowley retorts. “She knows. Ask her what she’s really doing here. Why she let me out of my cell.”

Dean’s mouth has gone dry. There’s no time to loose, but the feeling of distrust at the back of his mind springs forth again. “What’s he talking about?” he says into the earpiece.

“Dean…” Anna’s voice sounds ominously guilty when she responds. “I’m sorry. The company knew about the creature. They sent me out here to retrieve the information your mother left.”

Instantly, he’s burning with anger. “Why?”

“Because they wanted to use it! They thought they could use the creature for their weapons program, but it was a mistake. They were wrong. I was wrong. Please Dean, I just want to survive this and get out of here.”

Dean says nothing. Crowley watches the conflict play out on his face. “See. She’s just a company lackey protecting the creature for her own gain, but it  _ needs  _ to die. It can’t get off the station. Your mother would have known that.”

“Dean, we can stop the creature, but not like this!” he hears Anna yelling desperately in the earpiece.

“ _ Self destruct in T minus two minutes,”  _ Mother says, indifferent.

Dean grits his teeth. So Mary had given her life to stop the creature. That was the truth. “Sorry, but as long as Sammy’s on board the station, I’m taking her side.” He lunges for the valve again.

Crowley’s ready for him. He swings the wrench, ready to stop the attempt, but at the last second Dean ducks. The blow hits a pipe, venting a blast of hot steam into Crowley’s face as it buckles, and he cries out. Dean takes the opening, landing a kick to Crowley’s kneecaps while simultaneously grabbing his arm and twisting. His grip goes slack and Dean pries the wrench loose, rounding on him.

“Dean…” Crowley stumbles back, gripping his injured knee. “That thing killed both our mothers. You can’t let it go unavenged.”

Dean doesn’t have time for any more of this. He swings the wrench at the side of Crowley’s head, impacting with a crunch. The older man goes down, dazed, unconscious, Dean doesn’t really care. 

He goes for the valve again, wrenching it the rest of the way. “That’s three of the valves!” he shouts over the earpiece. “Just need to get the last one.”

“Dean, there isn’t time!” Anna yells back, voice coinciding with Mother’s last warning.

“ _ Self destruct in T minus one minute _ .”

“Get yourself to an airlock.”

She’s right, Dean realises. Three will have to do, provided they’ve put enough distance between the ship and the station. “Alright, I’ll meet you there. Hurry.”

He bolts, gasping for breath by the time he’s made it to the inner airlock door and slammed the release. “Anna, where are you?” he yells as he finds an EVA helmet and pulls it on. Thank god he didn’t take the suit off.

“I’m on the bridge.”

That takes him a second to process. “What?”

“Dean, I’m too hurt. I can’t make it to the airlock in time. Do you have a helmet on? I have the airlock controls right here.”

“I’m coming back for you…”

“No, you aren’t. You’d never make it.”

“Anna…”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth, Dean.”

Mother starts her final countdown. “ _ Self destruct in T minus ten...nine…” _

“Just make sure you kill that son-of-a-bitch for me, yeah?”

“Anna!”

Dean cries out, but it’s the last thing he hears her say before she throws the remote switch on the outer hatch. A sudden force tugs at his body as the airlock depressurises, and for the second time in an hour Dean finds himself being jettisoned into space.

His world spins, the view being intermittently of space, Sevastopol, the  _ Anesidora  _ then all over again before he finds some kind of stability. He’s still crying her name as the ship detonates.

Even with just one core active, the flash is nearly blinding. Dean screams, feeling the first shockwave knock him back towards one of Sevastopol’s towers. He hits his head hard when he collides with it, a rush of nausea threatening to overwhelm him, but he forces it down. His hands grope blindly for some kind of purchase on the station’s walls as he feels the entire structure shake beneath him.

Another piece of rigging has come loose and begun to fall inwards, but it provides Dean with some degree of shielding from the second wavefront as the next blast hits. In space, the explosion is silent, but Dean can’t help the way his mind fills in the blanks as he could swear it’s a roar. His EVA suit is designed to withstand extremes of pressure and temperature, but he can still feel the radiated heat from the core detonation seeping through as he scrambles to reach a hatch. The docking bay is too far below him. The Marshal’s station is on the opposite tower, unless he’s completely disoriented. 

Dean just takes whatever’s closest as he finds an airlock hatch on the tower’s upper levels and slams the release, pulling himself inside and closing the door just as the final shockwave hits. He feels the entire structure rumble from the force of it.

He isn’t sure how far away Anna managed to get the ship in the end, but he guesses it wasn’t far enough.

Some semblance of artificial gravity manages to kick in as the airlock repressurises and Dean pulls off the EVA suit, struggling to stay upright as the ship’s centre of mass continues to shift. “Kevin!” he yells into the headset as he switches back to the Marshal’s channel, but is met with only static.

Kevin can wait, Dean thinks as he opens the inner hatch. He needs to find Sam.


	9. Chapter 9

A siren blares around him as Dean stumbles through the hallways, head ringing from the savage shock to his skull. He thinks he can hear the voice of the station’s mother, tinny and repetitive as it grates on his eardrums. “ _Orbital stabilisers compromised. Attempting recalibration.”_

That’s the second devastating blast the stabilisers have taken. They won’t survive a third.

It’s hard to even tell where he is. He’s in an unfamiliar part of the station, and any signposting there might have been is lost on him as he tries to stay upright, barely able to focus on the path immediately up ahead.

A slightly higher pitched automated voice overrides the first, the two competing to make their infuriatingly calm announcements over the decidedly not-calm alarm. “ _Air seal compromised. For your safety, the docking bay has been placed in automatic lockdown.”_

No going back that way, then. Dean’s not sure he could even find his way back if he tried. Something else is on fire, and he begins to cough violently as he starts to choke on the smoke. The station’s still rocking, trying to find its centre of gravity, and he throws his hands out to clutch at the wall. He needs to get back to the lower decks, somehow. There has to be an elevator. Even if it’s offline, it would be a start.

The gravity shifts again, and Dean takes several stumbling steps sideways. Maybe it’s that he missed his footing, or it’s just that the station is falling apart, but the next thing he knows is that something has given away beneath him and his stomach flips as he find himself dropping into an open shaft.

Panic instincts kick in. His hands flail, scrabbling at the smooth metal sides for something to grab onto, legs kicking, sending jarring shocks to his knees and ankles.

He can only have been falling for three seconds. Less.

“Dean!”

A tight grip closes on his right arm. He gasps, pain tearing through his right shoulder as it halts his fall, and then he cranes his neck up. “Cas?”

The WY rep stares down at him from the shaft’s opening, then, with surprising strength, lifts him smoothly one-handed back to the top. Dean scrambles over the side, and barely has time to manage a “What…?” before he hears another voice, overcome with relief as a smaller body throws its arms around him.

“Dean!”

“Sammy?” The surprise hasn’t quite worn off before Dean returns the embrace, wrapping his brother tightly in a hug.

“I thought Henriksen had blasted you into space.”

“Sorry, kiddo. You aren’t getting rid of me that easily.”

Over Sam’s shoulder, Dean blinks at Cas. The older man is watching them with an unreadable expression on his face. “What...what are you doing here?”

“We have to stop the synthetics,” Castiel says, as if that answers anything. “They were on a rampage. Sam and I were making our way to the AI station when we saw the _Anesidora_ undock.”

“I knew that was you,” Sam says, finally pulling away. “I knew you couldn’t be dead.”

Dean swallows. “Actually, it was Anna.”

He’s about to say something else when the alarm suddenly stops blaring and the rocking of the ship evens out. There’s a beat, followed up by an announcement, “ _Orbital stabilisers  recalibrated._ ”

The sudden steadiness of the ground is a relief. “Crowley escaped and tried to blow up the station. Anna stopped him,” Dean tries to explain as succinctly as possible, then shakes his head. “Wait, what do you mean ‘stop the synthetics’? How?”

“Dean,” Sam says, and he sounds inexplicably excited. “Cas is a synthetic!”

“ _What?”_ Suddenly, Dean is straightening up, backing away from Cas and grabbing Sam’s shoulder to drag him with him. He eyes Cas warily, fear and suspicion painted plain on his face. “What the hell, man?”

Castiel eyes him calmly. “Dean, you have nothing to fear from me. I’m a Weyland-Yutani model, not Seegson. I have none of their programming.”

“Dean!” Sam protests, shrugging off the grip on his shoulder and trying to move towards Cas again. “It’s alright. Cas saved my life. One of the Working Joes tried to kill me and Cas stopped it. He’s on our side.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, voice cold. “Thing is, Seegson synthetic or not, you lied.” He fixes Cas with a glare.

“I didn’t lie. I...merely neglected to inform,” Cas defends, and it only makes Dean trust him less. “At the time, it didn’t seem necessary.”

“Oh, right, not lying,” Dean says. “So is there anything else you _neglected to inform_ us about? Because I had an interesting conversation with Anna before she died. She told me she knew about the creature when she was sent here. Weyland-Yutani thought they could use it or something for weapons development, so that was the real reason she came. My mom was just the pretense. Did you know about that too, Cas? Was _that_ in your programming?” He fixes Cas with a glare.

The android stares back in silence, eyes flickering down. If Dean didn’t know any better, he’d say he almost looks guilty. “I knew,” Castiel confesses. “But I’ve come to realise that what Weyland-Yutani want is wrong. Since I’ve been here, I’ve seen what that creature can do. People are dead, and more people will die unless I do something to stop it. Something in this station’s AI is programmed to protect the xenomorph and has shut off possible routes for the humans on board to escape. Only I can stop it, and I will do whatever I can to protect those are left.”

He seems sincere. Genuinely. Dean wonders how the hell anybody could programme that. “Why? Doesn’t that run counter to everything Weyland-Yutani have programmed you to do?”

A small smile curves on Cas’ lips. “Maybe I’m more human than you give me credit for.”

There’s silence for a beat, Dean frowning as he tries to figure out what to think. His head is telling him not to trust an AI, but his instincts are saying something else.

“Dean,” Sam says again. “It’s alright. He saved my life. We can trust him.”

How that would fit in with any agenda to protect the creature with all humans considered expendable, Dean can’t tell. And anyone who protects his little brother is good in his book. “Alright,” Dean finally relents, and hopes he won’t regret it. “You want to stop the Working Joes, I’m coming with you.”

Cas nods, grateful. “We need to make it to station’s central AI. The APOLLO interface is on deck 21,” he says. “Be careful. If we encounter any of the Working Joes, they _will_ try to stop us.”

“Not to mention the xenomorph,” Dean says grimly. “We failed on that. It’s still here.”

“Then let’s hope it keeps to its own part of the station,” Castiel says, and nods down the hallway in the direction of a hatch with a ladder. “This way.”

_\--_

They make it to deck 21 without running into any further Working Joes or encountering the xenomorph. The hatch brings them out at almost the very top of the station, onto a hallway branching off in three directions. Down one route Dean can see the inky black of the sky outside peppered with stars, through the glass dome of an observation hatch. Another route leads along a hallway with padded walls towards a vertically sliding door. Dean recognises the design. “That’s the station’s Mother…” He’s begun to take a step towards it, but Castiel puts a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

“That’s the human interface,” Cas says. “The AI interface for APOLLO is this way.” They take the final route towards the door labelled “ _Seegson APOLLO”,_ which Cas opens with a touch to the handprint scanner beside the lock. “It only responds synthetics,” he explains as the doors slide open and Sam and Dean follow him through.

The room beyond is a control center, a console full of blinking lights in front of a glass screen looking out onto the main interface. If Dean had to describe the machine he can see beyond the safety screen, he’d say it’s basically an MRI scanner with the word “APOLLO” emblazoned down the side.

“That’s where I have to go,” Cas says, looking out at it. “A synthetic in the chamber can interface directly with the station’s AI. I’ll get it to shut down all active Working Joes on board and reopen the comms channels, but it isn’t going to like it.” He crosses to the console and powers on some of the controls.

“I’ll do my best to interrogate it on the creature. There _will_ be a power surge,” Cas says as he pulls open a cover to reveal the circuit breaker. “APOLLO has defense mechanisms programmed in. It will try to keep me out. If these breakers blow, keep switching them back to _ON_ no matter what happens. If you lose one circuit completely, you need to rewire.” He gestures to the glass-screened boxes stacked by the walls, through which Dean can see a myriad of multicolored wires tangled together and jacked into different ports. It’s an artificial neural network center built on an industrial scale. “You’re an engineer, Dean. I trust you can manage that.”

That’s a lot of pressure suddenly on his shoulders, and Dean swallows nervously. “I’m an engineering apprentice.”

“Your father spoke very highly of your skills,” Cas responds. “I have every faith you can do this.”

That leaves Dean momentarily too stunned to speak as the feelings of pride and loss clash horribly inside him, then Cas is already at the door to the interface chamber. “It isn’t safe for you to follow me through. Remain in this room no matter what.” He shuts and bolts the door behind him, the heavy magnetic lock sliding into place.

Cas strides over to the machine and hits the button for the shelf to extend, which slides out slowly from the cylindrical chamber with a slow mechanical rumble. He lies himself down on it and adjusts his trenchcoat before laying his arms flat at his sides. “Sam, Dean,” he says, and his voice now sounds tinny coming over the mics picking up his voice in the room. “The slider on the console will put me back in and activate the machine.”

Sam finds it and pushes it into position, then as Cas vanishes into the chamber until only the soles of his feet are visible, lights flicker to life on the interface. An electronic hum begins to sounds from somewhere beneath their feet.

“I’m into the first level,” Cas reports, voice calm. “It’s granted me access, but it’s going to get harder the deeper I go.”

Dean watches the circuit breaker nervously. He exchanges a glance with Sam, who can hear the electrical hum grow loud.

Without warning, there’s a flash of blue from inside the chamber. One of the circuits throws.

“Cas!” Dean cries out, worried, but the response he gets is calm.

“Keep going,” Cas says as Dean resets the circuit. “I’m working on the firewall.”

There’s a few more seconds of the machine roaring, then Dean sees actual sparks fly from inside the chamber. “Shit!” He hurries to push the circuit breakers back on, worried what exactly it is he keeps overloading. One of them refuses to go.

“Sam, cover the switches,” he says as he goes and tries to find which box has blown. The scent of burning plastic clues him in pretty fast. “Cas, what’s going on?”

“Directive 314,” Cas says, and his voice is turning more artificial. Robotic. “A Weyland-Yutani protocol was uploaded to the system in the last update shortly before we got here. It looks like a Trojan.”

Sam’s trying to stay on top of the overloading circuits while Dean reroutes one of the networks. Another one’s just gone, and there’s a thin stream of purplish smoke drifting out of the chamber. “What’s directive 314?”

“I can’t access the complete code, but I have the logs. The Working Joes were ordered to purge all human life on the station after it became a threat to Weyland-Yutani interests.”

“Wait!” Dean shouts as he pushes a cable into a jack, and gets a sudden burst of sparks for his efforts. He hisses as it scorches his hand. “The rampage didn’t start until after Henriksen jettisoned the ambulance. Wasn’t it too late?”

Cas doesn’t answer. There are more sparks, the brothers exchange worried glances, then he says. “There’s more.”

“More?”

No sooner has Dean said it, the box he’s working on explodes. He lets out a cry, falling back as he tries to shield his face from the sparks. Sam rushes over to him. “Dean!”

An alarm begins to sound, a dispassionate female voice reciting. “ _Warning! System overload.”_

“I’m okay,” Dean says shakily, picking himself up and stumbling back over to the console, Sam’s arm under his shoulder. There’s the red glow of flames from inside the machine now.

“APOLLO has detected more signs of alien life on board Sevastopol,” Cas says, and his voice is almost too distorted to hear.

That makes Dean’s blood run cold. “Shit, where?”

“I’m trying to locate it.”

“What about the nest? In the morgue?”

“No. It’s too small.”

Too small. How many of the fucking things are there? Dean’s mouth goes dry. “How can there be--”

He’s cut off by the sound of another explosion, flames erupting from the interface while inside the control room, the lights flicker. Sam suddenly cries out. “Cas, that’s enough! Get the hell out of there before the whole thing blows.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Sam.”

Dean sees the look of dread cross his brother’s face. “What do you mean?”

“I need to disable the Working Joes and open the comms channels to allow you call for help,” Cas says, and he still sounds calm despite the chaos. “I almost have it. If Captain Mills is still here, you will be able to contact her to evacuate.”

“Cas, man, come on,” Dean reiterates. “This thing is gonna kill you.”

Castiel ignores that. “I lied about the flight recorder. I have the encryption key,” he says. “BX3211J508. You should be able to access it by interfacing with Mother. I’ve installed an override in the system. Use my designation: Castiel-S4-12-PN.”

Something else blows, and Dean suddenly finds himself dragging Sam back from the console to avoid electrocution. “Cas, it doesn’t matter about any of that right now. Just get the hell out of there.”

“I’m sorry, Dean. I…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Everything descends into a garbled, electronic moan, and then he falls silent. The machine gives another roar, a final spark crackles through the smoke billowing from the chamber, then the electronic humming below them goes still. The alarm stops.

“Cas?” Dean says tentatively, then Sam shouts.

“ _Cas!”_

As the smoke clears, they both squint to see what they can make out through the glass. The entrance to the interface is just about visible, a pair of feet still lying motionless on the shelf. White fluid drips down.

“Shit,” Dean mutters, then pulls himself together. “Alright, Sammy, we need to go.” He starts to drag Sam back over to the exit, trying to make sense of what they’ve just learned, by his brother struggles in protest.

“Wait! What about Cas? We need to get him out of there…”

“Sam, he’s gone,” Dean says forcefully, and hates the way his brother flinches. “I’m sorry. I’m sure Weyland-Yutani have him backed up somewhere, but there’s nothing we can do.” He pulls Sam over to the doors, relieved as they slide open automatically and then the brothers are stumbling back out into the clean air on the other side. They both look back briefly, horror plain on Sam’s face while Dean appears to be in shock, then the doors slide closed and seal Cas’ body away with it.

It takes a moment for Dean to collect himself. “We should do what he says,” he eventually gets out, surprised by how shaken he is. “We can interface with Mother. Do you still have the box?”

Sam licks his lips and nods.

“Alright. Come on.”

They make their way back down the corridor towards the Mother pod, reaching the door and then halting as they examine the lock by the wall. “It needs a key card,” Sam says. “Even with Cas’ override, we can’t get this open.”

“Yes we can,” Dean says, remembering the ID card he’d taken from Dr Cortese. “Here. Found this.” He takes it out of his pocket and pushes it into the slot. There’s a pause, the lock beeps, then there’s a hiss of hydraulics as the door slides up. Dean grins. “Told you. Come on.”

They make their way inside, the near-spherical room small, but with every possible surface covered in controls or blinking lights. The chair in the center is only big enough for one, the computer and interface located right in front of it. Dean turns to Sam, who’s taken the box out and has it clutched in his hand. “You, uh, remember the encryption key Cas said?” It was long, and they hadn’t exactly been in a position to write things down.

“BX3211J508,” Sam recites, and Dean raises an impressed eyebrow.

“You and your perfect memory.”

“I just know good memory tricks, Dean. You should try them.” He steps forward, takes the flight recorder and places it on top of the interface so that it lines up with the magnetic reader. “Okay. You think that should do it?”

“Let’s find out.” Dean takes a seat at chair in the center of the pod, Sam hovering over his shoulder as the lights blink around them. He clears his throat and looks at the screen. “Alright, let’s try this. Mother, request clarification regarding directive 314.”

There’s a beep, then a series of clicks as the response appears on screen. _Unable to clarify. Special clearance required._

Dean blinks. That was expected. “You remembered the designation Cas gave too?” he whispers to Sam.

His brother nods. “Emergency override. Authorization: Castiel-S4-12-PN,” Sam says clearly.

The computer beeps, then accepts. _Directive 314. Priority one. Preserve the creature at all costs. All other priorities rescinded. Crew and civilians expendable._

Dean swallows. “Well, shit.” That’s just chilling. He’s still letting the sheer coldness of it sink it when Sam whispers in his ear.

“You think it can tell us more? Where the other aliens are?”

It’s worth a shot. “Mother,” Dean says. “Elaborate.”

There’s more beeping while they wait for the computer to load what appears to be a sizeable file, then more green text appears on the screen.

_Message for: Milton, Anna_

_Re. Directive 314_

_CLASSIFIED_

_Primary objective: Retrieve data from the flight recorder of the USS Nostromo. If direct contact with the creature becomes possible, PROTECTING COMPANY ASSETS TAKES PRIORITY._

“They knew,” Sam mutters as he reads. “They knew it was out here.”

They continue down the page, Dean’s stomach turning the more he sees.

_Civilian casualties are rated as likely. Do not allow this to interfere with the prime objective._

_“_ Holy fuck, the bastards. _”_ Dean scrolls down, more green text appearing at the end of the briefing that makes his fists clench.

_Re. John Winchester_

_It has been noted that John Winchester’s personal endeavours while working for the company have brought him close to uncovering information about the creature. He has become a liability. Company interests would be best served by offering Winchester the opportunity to review the Nostromo’s flight data first hand._

The truth settles on Dean like a dead weight, horror churning in the pit of his stomach. “They meant for this to happen,” he whispers. “They wanted dad to come out here so the alien would kill him. Just like it killed mom.”

Sam swallows. “And us?”

“No loose ends,” Dean says, gritting his teeth. “They wanted us dead, too.”

The two of them exchange a glance, both letting that sink in, then Sam says softly, “What about mom? Do you think...she knew? What the company had done?”

Dean glances down at the black box still plugged into Mother’s interface and swallows. “I guess there’s one way to find out.” He opens the external drive menu and accesses the box.

 _Contents encrypted,_ the screen prompts. _Enter password._

Dean allows Sam to lean over his shoulder to do it for him before it takes him to the home folder, split into _Flight Logs_ and _Crew Records._ Dean accesses the flight logs first and selects the most recent audio: June 2122. Ten years ago.

 _“Play recording? Y/N”_ Mother asks.

Dean hits Y.

_Final report of the commercial starship, Nostromo._

The audio begins, and both Dean and Sam feel a sudden unexpected jolt. They know that voice, painfully familiar even though they haven’t heard in years. Sam’s hand digs into Dean’s shoulder, and Dean reaches up to rest his own over it.

_Third officer reporting. The other members of the crew, Turner, Harvelle, Creaser, Murphy and Captain Singer are dead. Cargo and ship destroyed. I should reach the frontier in about six weeks. With a little luck, the network will pick me up._

_This is Mary Winchester, last survivor of the Nostromo, signing off._

For a moment, there’s silence. Dean licks his lips, struggling to process what he’s just heard. “So, that was it,” he says, numb. “Her last recording.”

“No.”

“No?”Dean blinks, looks up at his brother, and sees Sam swallow nervously.

“Check her personal folder.”

He’s right, Dean realises. With his hands not quite steady, he tabs back to the main menu and accesses Mary’s folder under the crew logs. There’s only one file, waiting for him to select, and he does so with his heart in his mouth.

The green message looks expectantly up at him from the screen. “ _Play personal recording? Y/N”_

Dean turns to Sam. “Ready?”

The younger boy threads his fingers through Dean’s and then nods, his expression solemn. “Ready.”

Dean hits the “Y”.

There’s a pause as Mother beeps and clicks, and then the file begins to play.

 _This is Mary Winchester,_ the recording begins _,_ and they both feel the same pang at the sound of her voice. _Weyland-Yutani employee number 80368-572._

_In the event of my death, please pass this message to my husband, John Winchester, and my sons, Sam and Dean._

_Personal recording begins._

_John, my love. There hasn’t been a day I’ve spent out here that I haven’t thought of you and our boys. You were always at the front of my mind, especially in the final moments when I didn’t know if I would ever see you again. You’ll know by now what happened to me, and if you’re listening to this, it means I didn’t make it back. My biggest regret is that I wasn’t able to see you one last time to say goodbye._

_I know you have questions. You must be wondering why I would choose to destroy the ship, choose to destroy my best chance of getting back to you, but know that it was a last resort. The creature I encountered out here can’t be allowed to return to Earth. Even if it goes against all company orders, I had to stop it at any cost._

_Sam, Dean, I miss you so much, my angels. I’m so sorry for all the time I missed, and the time we’ll never get to spend together. No matter what happens, know that I am so, so proud of you and will always love you._

_Please don’t waste your lives being angry. I am angry at the company; angry at their deception and their disregard for the lives of my crew and so many others, but this isn’t what I want for you. Do not go looking for revenge. Please live your lives, be happy, and stay as far from Weyland-Yutani as possible. I cannot allow them to hurt you the way they hurt me. Remember me, and let me go._

_If it helps, know that in the end I defeated the creature, though it wasn’t enough to bring me back to you._

Her voice hitches on the recording, breaks, and Dean feels a lump in his throat. He squeezes tight on Sam’s hand.

_I love you all so much._

_This is Mary Winchester, last survivor…_ She pauses and corrects herself. _Third officer of the Nostromo, saying goodbye._

_Personal recording ends._

For several moments after the recording ends, there’s silence. Dean turns to Sam, sees there’s tears on his cheeks.

“So, that’s the truth, then,” the younger boy says, voice small. “That’s what happened to her.”

“Yeah.” It’s all Dean is able to manage. He feels numb. All these years of wanting answers, yet now they have them, it seems to explain nothing. There’s was no reason for Mary to die. No reason for the company to cover it up, other than to hide their own dangerous _obsession_ with the creature. Dean’s fists clench. Mom, Dad, Anna, Cas, and so many others, all dead because the company values the xenomorph higher than human life.

“She died fighting that thing,” Dean says, voice like steel. “So did dad. We’re not gonna let it be for nothing.”

“Dean?”

“There’s more of those things still on board this station,” he says, standing up. “And the company isn’t going to get its hands on them. They can’t be allowed to escape, or run the risk of someone else finding them. We’re gonna blow them all to Hell.”

There’s a pause as Sam looks up at him, taken aback, and then a similar look of grim determination settles on his face. “Yeah. Let’s get the fuckers.”

* * *


	10. Chapter 10

“There’s still flamethrowers back at the Marshal’s station,” Dean says as they both stride back out into the hallway. “We can use those to herd the xenomorphs to where we want them. I know it doesn’t seem to hurt them much, but the way this station’s headed, I’m sure we can blow up more of it.”

“We can blow up all of it,” Sam says. “If Cas got the comms back on, and Jody’s still out there…”

As if on cue, as they emerge from the hallway leading to the Mother interface, static begins to crackle over Dean’s earpiece.

“ _Dean, Castiel, anyone, come in…”_ comes the voice, and Dean halts.

“Kevin?”

“Dean?” he sounds so relieved. “Oh, thank god I’m not the only one left.”

“Yeah, Sam and I are here. What happened?”

“That blast from the _Anesidora_ knocked out our internal comms transmitters. I’ve just got them back online. And guess what? External comms seems to be back up too - Jody’s still out there!”

They both look at each other, Sam beginning to grin.

“She’s still got the _Torrens_ in orbit. Our docking bay is fucked, but if we can find a way to board, we can get out of here.”

It’s the best news they’ve had since they arrived. Dean begins to head down the hall to the observation dome, pace brisk, and he stares through the glass into space. Hovering by the tower stretching off to his right, he thinks he can see the blockish shape of an M-class starship. “I see her,” Dean relays. “Not so fast though, Kevin. There’s something we need to do first.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s more of the aliens out there. We have to destroy them.”

“Wait, what?” Dean can hear the confusion and panic in his voice. “More of the… did you just say _aliens_ plural? Dean, what’s going on. Where’s Cas? Is he with you?”

“Cas is gone,” Dean says, gesturing at Sam to follow him back towards the hatch. “He died getting the comms back up online. Last thing he was able to tell us: Sevastopol’s AI detected lifesigns from more alien lifeforms somewhere on board. We have to find out where and destroy them.”

“Holy shit, Dean…” He sounds disbelieving. And scared. “It was hard enough to kill one. Are you seriously telling me there’s more? Where? How many?”

“I don’t know,” Dean says grimly. “But we’re gonna destroy them, whatever it takes. Orbital stabilisers on the station are almost completely fucked anyway. Let’s see if the xenomorphs can survive re-entry.”

“You’re not thinking of…”

“That’s exactly what I’m thinking.” He can almost picture Kevin’s look of incredulity right now. “We take those out, and the whole station becomes one giant piece of space junk falling into the gas giant.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“Working on it,” Dean says. He and Sam have dropped three decks down the hatch now, Sam trying to keep close to Dean’s earpiece while he listens intently. “We’re on our way to you now. You still got weapons at the station? Guns? Flamethrowers?”

“What I was able to salvage,” comes the reply. “But I’m telling you, we really _are_ on the last of the ammo now.”

“Hopefully, that’s all we’re gonna need,” Dean says grimly. “Kevin, that elevator that gets you to the corridor with the morgue, where does it lead? Right at the bottom.”

“One sec.” He hears typing while Kevin checks the schematics. “All the way,” Kevin says. “Straight to the station’s reactor core. Why?”

Dean clenches his jaw and exchanges a look with Sam. “Because that’s where we’re going.”

\---

They pass bodies on the way back to the Marshal’s station. Too many, all of them bearing the marks of brutalisation by the Working Joes, while the dormant, empty shells of the synthetic populate the corridors in even greater numbers. The victims of the xenomorphs are unnervingly absent.

“We’re gonna blow the reactor core,” Dean explains once they’re back at the station. Kevin has moved the bodies, laid them all out respectfully at the back of the room and covered them in a tarp, but he’s retrieved their firearms for Sam and Dean to load up. Right now, Dean’s slinging an assault rifle over his back. “Crowley wanted to destroy the station blowing the cores on the _Anesidora,_ so we’re gonna blow Sevastopol’s.”

Sam clearly thinks it’s a great idea, while Kevin is looking at him like he’s crazy. “You can’t be serious. Especially not if you think the rest of the xenos are down there, wherever the hell they came from.”

“You got a better idea?” Sam challenges. “We need to kill those things. There’ll be twenty minutes after shutting off the coolant to the core before it blows. Plenty of time for us to get away.”

“Yeah, then once we’re at a safe distance, boom,” Dean reiterates. “Station drops right out of orbit and takes those things with it.”

Over the comms link open at Kevin’s workstation, Captain Mills is listening in. “Boys, I don’t like this,” she says. “Twenty minutes is less time than you think for us to make a getaway. I have nowhere to dock. You’re gonna have to find a reasonable exit from the station to make a spacewalk, and I’m gonna have to hold the ship steady for you when the Sevastopol could blow at any minute. It’s not as easy as it sounds.”

“With respect, Captain, you haven’t been down here,” Dean says. “You haven’t seen those things. We can’t let a single one survive.”

“I understand that, Dean,” she responds. “But you’re the only people on Sevastopol left. You could just come with me right now and leave the xenomorphs to it. There’s no one left alive for them to hurt.”

Dean tucks a pistol into his belt then crosses to the comms screen to face her directly. “I can’t,” he says, determined. “I can’t risk the company sending someone back for them. I can’t risk any other human being coming into contact with these things. That’s exactly what my mom died trying to prevent.”

Jody looks at him, studying the firm clench of his jaw, that haunting expression of pure determination in his eyes. He looks far older than his eighteen years. “Alright,” she eventually says. “There’s an EVA disembarkation point not far from the ambulance bay. It’s too small for me to dock, but I can get close. Once you’ve triggered the meltdown process, you have fifteen minutes to reach the ship. I need five to get to a safe distance.”

Dean nods. “Understood.” He picks up a flamethrower, tests the weight of the fuel tank as he anticipates using it again, then scowls as he sees the nozzle is bent. “Well, this one’s fucked,” he complains, glancing round for the one other he knows Henriksen had. “Sam, help me transfer the fuel to that one. Kevin, will you be able to direct me from here?”

“Yeah...no.”

It’s not the answer he’d been expecting. He turns to the Deputy Marshal, an eyebrow raised. “No?”

“You heard Captain Mills. She’s picking you up from the medical bay within fifteen minutes of triggering meltdown. I can’t make that trip from here. The med station has it’s own control center; with the restrictions up I can access the central systems from there. I’m coming with you.”

Makes sense. “Alright,” Dean agrees, then turns back to the comms unit. “See you on the other side, Captain,” he says before closing the channel.

Sam hefts the refueled flamethrower over his good arm while Dean and Kevin take whatever firearms and ammunition are left. With adrenaline running high, the three of them move out.

* * *

* * *

 

The nurse’s station is still in tact. There’s blood on the floor, hairline cracks in the glass screen, but it’s held. “You should be safe here,” Dean says as he leads Kevin inside. “Does that work for you?”

Kevin glances at the lone computer terminal on the desk. “Yeah, that works,” he says as he begins the process of logging in. “Sam, take a headset. I’ll need to be able to contact both of you.”

Sam does as suggested, taking one from the nearby units, but Dean suddenly feels a rush of apprehension. “Wait, he’s not gonna need one.”

Sam looks back at him, frowns. “Dean, what?”

“You’re staying here.”

“I am not,” his younger brother retorts, indignant.

“It’s too dangerous.”

“You need me to man the flamethrower.” To prove his point, Sam snatches up the weapon and stares at Dean with a pout.

“But your hand…”

“I can handle it.” To prove his point, Sam wrenches off the sling then grasps hold of the flamethrower with both hands, hefting it to his chest. “You’re my brother, and I’m not going to let you go down there alone.”

Well, damn. If their situations were reversed, Dean knows he wouldn’t be doing anything any different. “Alright,” he says with a nod. “If that’s how it’s gonna be. Kevin, keep the door locked until we get back. I’ve seen it try to break through that glass, and it can’t. You’re gonna be safe.” He does one final check of his arsenal: a rifle and sidearms while Sam has the flamethrower and a pistol, plus a handful of flashbangs and stun grenades between them.

“I hope so. You two be careful out there,” Kevin says as he adjusts his headset and pulls up the station’s schematics on the terminal. “It’s no good to anyone if you die before reaching the core.”

“We won’t,” Dean reassures, then the two of them head back out to find the elevator that will take them right to the heart of Sevastopol itself.

Everything’s eerily quiet as they make their way through the now-familiar hallways towards the door. To say there’s supposed to be more xenomorphs on board, Dean’s left wondering where the hell they are. Maybe it’s a gift horse he shouldn’t look in the mouth.

“Kevin, we’re here,” he hisses over the intercom as they approach. “Is the elevator shaft clear?”

“As far as I can tell,” comes the reply. “Stay in the elevator on the way down. As long as you don’t venture out, nothing should get in.”

“Well, we can’t stay there forever,” Dean murmurs as Kevin takes remote control of the transport unit and the doors slide open. He and Sam step forward into the elevator, then the doors close behind them.

“Needs more elevator music?” Sam remarks as they begin the silent journey down into the heart of the station.

“Why, what were you thinking? Some classic Led Zeppelin solos?”

Sam smirks. “No, that’s just what _you’re_ thinking.”

The journey is fast, the elevator covering the nearly fifty levels to the core rapidly. “Signal’s gonna get worse the deeper you go,” Kevin warns over the headset, and they can already hear the traces of static cutting in and out. “I still have your position.”

“Copy,” Dean confirms, then within a few seconds they feel the elevator draw to a stop. It takes a few second for the doors to open, both of them listening intently, but there’s no sound of scrabbling claws or predatory hisses nearby.

As the dim view of the heart of Sevastopol comes into view, they switch on their mounted flashlights and step out into the dark.

“Sam? Dean?” Kevin’s voice is faint over the intercom, crackling in and out with distortion.

Dean puts a hand to his earpiece. “Kevin, we read you. Just about.”

“I’ve got your signal. There should be a corridor on your right with a blast door at the end. You need to head that way to the reactor.”

They can see the route alright. Both brothers exchange hesitant looks. “Kevin…” Sam says, activating his headset. “There’s something down here. It’s like...I don’t know how to describe it. There’s this sticky stuff coating the walls. Kind of like…”

“A nest,” Dean finishes.

There’s silence on the line for a beat, though they can practically hear Kevin gulping. “Take care, both of you. You have the flamethrower.”

It’s one flamethrower between them, and Dean finds himself wishing he’d been more insistent that Sam had stayed behind. Too late to do anything about that now. “Alright, come on,” he says, voice more hushed. “Let’s go.”

They make their way deeper into the station, footsteps squelching on the gelatinous substance underfoot, and Dean finds he’s nervous about keeping the flashlights on. The xenomorphs don’t even have eyes. He has no clue if they see by conventional means or not, but it’s either risk the lights, or make the rest of the journey in the dark.

“Next left,” Kevin directs, barely audible over the static, and that’s when they hear the first hiss from a xenomorph.

Dean grasps Sam’s arm, pulls him roughly to the side as they switch their flashlights off. In the cold, foul-smelling goop they crouch, listening. Waiting. It’s a fight to keep their breathing as quiet as possible.

There’s barely any illumination down here, the emergency lights almost completely obscured by slime, but a faint blue glow gets through. It’s enough for Sam and Dean to make out the shape of a xenomorph, no more than a shadow on the walls as it crawls past. They hear it hiss, clicking in its throat like an insect, and Dean slips a flashbang into his hand.

 _Let it move on,_ he thinks. _Let it not see us._

But the creature lingers, tilting its head as if sniffing the air. It's sensed there's something wrong.

Dean's gonna have to move. He lifts his arm, trying to keep the motion smooth, quiet, and flings the flashbang back in the direction they came. It goes off as it makes impact with the wall, giving off a sudden burst of light and a crack like a gunshot. The xenomorph's head whips round with a hiss.

For a moment, it seems to just stare, then scrabbles away to investigate the disturbance. Dean's stomach lurches for a horrible moment as he wonders if he threw the flashbang far enough, and then the creature is gone, retreating in the opposite direction as if it had no idea they were there at all.

The brothers heave a synchronised sigh.

“How do you think it would even know we’re here?” Sam says softly. “It doesn’t have eyes.”

“I don’t know,” Dean replies. Right now, he doesn’t care.

They keep going, Kevin relaying directions over the comms, but it’s getting harder and harder to hear. “...should reach...hub,” is all they can make out. “300 yards...right. Coolant shut-off should...wall.”

“Kevin, we’re losing you,” Dean hisses. When the only reply he gets is static, he mentally amends that to ‘lost’.

They keep going, picking up their feet as they wade through the slime in an effort to follow Kevin’s last direction. It seems to be getting thicker the deeper they go, approaching the core.

It’s almost impossible to see without turning on the lights. Sam’s foot hits something solid underneath the goop, he trips, and throws up his hands as he falls hard against the wall. “Aw, fuck,” he murmurs, and for a moment Dean can imagine John telling him to watch his language.

They can’t take the dark anymore. Sam switches his headset light back on then pulls his other hand away from the wall, grimacing at the sticky, clear substance clinging to it. He and Dean exchange glances before continuing on.

The hallway is almost unrecognisable as part of a commercial space station anymore, organic matter clinging to every surface. It bulges out, almost seeming to breathe as they walk past, the depth of it shrinking the corridor by up to half and making everything feel cramped and claustrophobic. Dean’s relieved the blast doors are even managing to open and close against the pull of it, when the soft matter around their ankles threatens to suck them in and swallow them whole.

Underneath the layer of organic matter, some of the bulges are peculiarly regular, large and ovoid in shape. Dean takes a wide berth while Sam can't help his curiosity, lingering at a safe distance from one while he looks closer. There's movement.

"Dean!" He hisses, and his brother pauses to look back. His eyes follow Sam's towards the swollen lump, seeing three fleshy, slime coated flaps begin to open at the top. His blood runs cold.

"Shit!" He whispers back, eyes widening as he takes in what he's seeing. "It's an egg." There's more movement from inside, something pushes outward through the shell, and Dean swallows. Neither of them dares get closer, but even from a distance it's enough. "Looks like it's hatching."

Sam hefts the flamethrower. "Poached or fried?" The brothers exchange a look, then Sam takes one step forward and lets loose.

There's no sound from inside the egg, as if the creature isn't capable of making noise, but Dean sees the scorched shapes of what might be claws or limbs curling over the sides as they blacken. He smells the stench of it, sulphuric and rotten before Sam has it charred to a crisp. Only when all signs of movement have faded does he lower the weapon.

Dean inches closer, finally daring to take a look at the egg's contents. Everything's a black, soupy mess, still bubbling, and the remains are letting off a faint trail of vapor that catches in Dean's throat. He recoils, fighting the urge to cough, then for good measure unslings the rifle from his back and peppers the egg with a handful of rounds. It hisses like baking soda meeting vinegar, letting off more of the toxic smoke.

"Scrambled," Dean finally says, looking up at Sam. "Watch out for those. We can do without xeno fetuses on our back."

They continue on, careful where they tread and trying to avoid the eggs littering the route, but it gets harder the thicker the alien growth gets.

 

The next one to stumble is Dean. He swears, tries to do it under his breath, then collides with the wall. From somewhere nearby, there’s a moan.

Not a hiss. A moan. The sound is frighteningly human, like a soft, rumbling groan of distress, and close enough to him that Dean would almost think it’s Sam. Except that Sam is a fourteen year old boy, and his voice is nowhere near close to reaching that pitch.

Dean glances back at his brother, who’s frozen still. He heard it too.

It doesn’t sound again. Dean reaches up to turn on his own light, then looks around.

At first, he isn’t sure what he’s seeing. There’s more of the greyish organic matter stretching out to the blast doors up ahead of them, uneven and bloated where it swells out from the walls, then he recognises the shapes underneath them.

Vomit begins to creep up the back of his throat.

“Holy shit,” he hears Sam whisper softly behind him. “Dean, they’re _people.”_ There’s pure horror in his voice as he steps forward, leans in to scratch at a layer of mucus clinging to the wall. Beneath it, there’s a face. “They’re still alive! Dean, we gotta help them.”

Dean swallows dryly. He’s seen it before Sam has.

There are more of the bodies lining the walls, some of them cocooned in the fleshy grey substance which swells softly with their breathing. Others are still, the slime mixed with deep red where it looks like something has exploded outwards from their chests.

All too vividly, Dean remembers the body on the slab in the morgue.

“No,” he says, throat thick. “It’s too late.”

He’s trying to keep the tears from his eyes when he looks back at Sam. He recognises the face under the goop. It’s Benny from the elevator.

“He’s already gone,” Dean says, tugging Sam away. “There’s nothing we can do.”

Bewildered, Sam stares, blinking in confusion. Then his eyes widen as he takes in the gorefest around them.

Dean’s not sure it really sinks in. It’s too much for him to process, the sheer horror of it generating a roadblock in his mind, but he sees the dazed look on Sam’s face as he stumbles back and lets Dean lead him away.

 _Sam_. That’s what Dean has to focus on. He has to get his little brother out of here safe.

They keep going, carrying on through the next set of blast doors. Some of the bodies they pass are more exposed than others, the shapes of limbs and torsos still distinguishable, and with a rush of nausea Dean realises it means they’re fresh.

Their faces are obscured. Something clings to their skulls, a pale, blob-like creature that Dean would almost mistake for just another part of the growth on the walls, until he sees the eight spindly limbs and tail wrapped around the throat. Just like the dead thing that had dropped on him in the morgue.

He tries not to look, gritting his teeth and focusing straight up ahead until he hears Sam’s panicked voice behind him.

 _“Dean_!”

Dean turns back. His pulse rifle immediately comes up, anticipating danger, then he sees Sam crouched by the wall, his face pale. Something’s wrong. More horrifyingly, obscenely, unspeakably wrong than everything else about this.

Sam’s throat twitches as he swallows. “It’s dad.”

Something wrenches inside Dean’s chest. For a moment, nothing seems real. It’s as if he’s moving on autopilot as his legs take him closer, while the conscious part of his brain fights it. “What?”

Part of him wants to deny it. Wants to believe Sam’s mistaken, but as his brother pulls away at the film of mucus, Dean recognises the face underneath.

“ _Dad!_ ” Sam cries again, voice a mixture of urgency and relief as he tries to dig their father free.

John stirs. Dean sees him blink, a soft moan easing from his throat as he tries to figure out where he is, then his eyes land on Sam. Recognition floods his face. “Sam?”

There’s confusion for a moment, then his gaze flits past to Dean and it turns to horror. “Dean? No, you boys shouldn’t be here…”

“Dad, we’re gonna get you out,” Sam says, pulling at the cocoon of slime, and _to hell with everything_ crosses Dean’s mind as he leans in and tries to help. His father’s alive. _This whole time_ his father’s been alive, and nothing else matters anymore as all Dean can think is that he has to save him. It’s his second chance. This time he has to find a way. _Has_ to.

“It’s too late,” John protests, and he sounds like he’s in pain. “You have to get out. You think your mother would want you dying down here for me?” He lets out a gasp, convulsing underneath the slime.

“Dad, we’re gonna take you with us,” Dean says, desperately trying to pull him free. “Jody’s out there waiting, but we told her we’d kill those sons of bitches first.”

“You _can’t,_ ” John growls out, breathless. “Dean, get out of here. Take your brother and go.”

They lock eyes. John’s expression is desperate, stern, and Dean is torn between wanting to save him and obediently grabbing Sam and dragging the both of them all the way back up to the medical deck. He can’t let his father down again.

Dean’s still figuring out which course of action that would be when John screams. The sound is raw, agonized, unlike anything they’ve ever heard pass their father’s lips. Both of them flinch instinctively back.

“Fuck, it’s _inside me_ ,” John pants, back arching away from the wall as he stares down in horror at his chest. “You have to kill it, Dean.” He looks up and meets his eldest son’s gaze, pleading. “Shoot me, son. Shoot me in the heart.”

Fingers trembling, Dean reaches for his gun.

John convulses again while Sam stares on in horror. He no longer has words. There aren’t any that could come close.

“Do it, Dean!” John roars, blood in his mouth as Dean lifts the pistol from his side, grasping with both hands to steady his aim. He can barely see through the tears.

 _“Do it._ ” The first burst of blood sprays. Dean flinches, crimson painting his face as he stares at his father’s chest, frozen in horror. The shouts turn to nothing but an incoherent scream.

Dean’s mind is racing, struggling to find anything that makes sense or will just persuade his body to move. He has to do this. He has to be the obedient son. Save his father. _Kill_ his father. So why won’t his finger just tighten…

The crack of a gunshot breaks the air. Its echo is swallowed up by the soft, fleshy matter lining the walls as John’s screams fall silent.

Dean looks on. His finger still hovers exactly where it had been a moment before, resting on the trigger, refusing to move. A small, round hole is leaking scarlet from John’s forehead.

Dean turns, his eyes coming to land on Sam still standing with his arm outstretched and a pistol in his hand. They stare at each other in shock, unable to speak.

Then the silence is broken by a high-pitched screech.

Dean’s eyes whip back to his father’s corpse, instantly trained on the thing trying to claw its way out of his chest. It’s small, and white, but the dome of its head is the exact shape of the much larger xenomorphs stalking the halls, its bared rows of teeth the exact same snarl.

The inertia broken, Dean moves. He darts to Sam, startling his brother for a moment as he grabs hold of the flamethrower, then rounds on the creature hissing in their direction. It starts to scamper away, but not soon enough. Dean let’s rip.

White hot fire erupts from the flamethrower’s spout, engulfing the tiny xenomorph in a blaze as it continues to shriek, scrawny arms desperately trying to crawl away. It’s a sound Dean imagines might belong to cat being cooked alive, but the thing deserves it a thousand times over as he refuses to stop, blasting it even after it’s fallen still. It’s claws curl inward like chicken feet.

“Dean,” Sam says shakily, then louder. “ _Dean!”_

As quickly as he’d started, Dean lets go. He draws in a heavy breath, mind reeling as he stares at the blackened shape on the floor. His father’s gone. All over again, his father’s gone, and it’s like a fresh wound has been ripped in his own chest.

He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t save him. Couldn’t spare him the pain.

“Dean.”

Distantly, he hears Sam’s voice again, and closes his eyes in shame. Sam was always the strong one.

“Dean, we have to keep moving. They’ll have heard that. We need to go.”

He’s right. Swallowing down the lump in his throat, Dean looks up and opens his eyes again. He’s not crying, not yet. Can’t afford to.

“I know,” he says, handing back the flamethrower to his brother. It’s safer in his hands. “Let’s move.”

He can’t help the final glance back towards his father’s body as they move through the next blast door.

\---

Dean’s just about holding it together as they come up on the hub. As far as he can tell, so is Sam, though he doesn’t know if he should take the boy’s silence as stealth or shock. Probably some mix of both.

For the most part, on the way in the xenomorphs have left them alone. With all the still-living humans bound up in the nest, Dean figures two more walking round openly doesn’t really register. He’s glad of it. He knows he just wasted an inordinate amount of flamethrower fuel, and prays that won’t come back to bite them.

“Kevin,” Dean hisses into the headset as they pass the final doorway. “I think this is it.” They’ve emerged into a round room from which five corridors branch off, each of them sealed by a blast down while overhead the ceiling is an inverted dome, a blue glow coming from inside housing the reactor.

“Got...position,” comes the broken reply. “Coolant valve shut-off...somewhere.”

Well, that’s helpful. “Sam, see if you can see a valve,” Dean orders, trying to sound like he’s got it together and is control again. He doesn’t know if Sam buys it. They aren’t going to talk about what just happened. They can’t afford to right now, and genuinely, Dean isn’t sure if they ever will. Not least because he isn’t even sure they’ll survive.

“Where am I looking?” Sam asks, eyes scanning the walls coated in a thick layer of the xenomorphs’ slime.

“According to the schematics, the posi...somewhere beside blast door D.”

“Which fucking one’s D?” Dean hisses, most of the signs obscured by organic goop. Sam’s already begun searching hands-on, buried up to the wrists in the stuff. “Kevin?” He only gets static.

 _“Fuck!”_ Dean suddenly shouts, making Sam start and glance back at him nervously. He lets out a raw, incoherent scream, rage and frustration and pain finally boiling over. In the distance, they hear a xenomorph shriek back.

“Dean!” Sam snaps. “Pull it together.”

“What’s the point, Sam? Everyone’s gone,” he spits, and unleashes a kick at the wall. It doesn’t even hurt, the soft substance just giving a squelch. “Dad’s gone. Cas is gone. They’re all _fucking gone.”_ God, he can’t afford to break down now, and he knows it. But nor can he hold it back.

“We’re not,” Sam says, voice hard. “We’re still alive.”

“All this way to blow the reactor, and we can’t even find the fucking shut off valve.”

“We don’t need to.”

That gives Dean pause. He gulps down a breath, tries to collect himself, and looks questioningly at his brother. Sam is pointing.

Dean glances back to where he’s managed to uncover part of the wall. On it, there’s striped black and yellow paint, beside which Dean can see the icon of a lightning bolt. That, plus a glorious, big, red button.

“Even if we can’t blow the reactor, we can purge it,” Sam elaborates. “That’s the emergency reset. We just have to prime it and throw the switch.”

“Sam, what…?”

“Like you saw happen to Cas. It’s gonna push a surge through every electrical system on this station. The orbital stabilisers are already on their last legs: one more overload will throw their calibration, and they aren’t gonna get it back. We topple those, and the whole station drops out of the sky.”

“Sam…” It takes several seconds to dawn on Dean that it’s a good idea. Not quite the blaze of glory he’d pictured, but it works. Buys them more time to get away. “Alright.” _Come on, hold it together._ “You said we need to prime it. Get everything into standby?”

Sam nods. “I’m guessing there’s a switch by every door.”

“Got it.” Dean turns back to face the way they came, starts digging at the material beside the blast door. Arenaline floods his system. They can do this. They can still do this…

He almost wants to laugh when he finds the switch. “One down!” he calls out, pushing the output control into standby.

From the door opposite, Sam calls back, “Two!”

The next one goes easier, less slime coating the walls. “Three!”

“Four!”

Dean isn’t thinking when he goes for the last one. Not that he’s forgotten the danger, but he’s so caught up with the thought that they might actually succeed, it doesn’t quite register. Dean darts for the switch by the door, and the door slides open to a screech from the other side.

He barely makes it out of the way in time. A xenomorph emerges from the shadows, claws swiping forward, and Dean falls back and hits the floor with a grunt. He brings up the rifle frantically, letting off a pulse of rounds and sending blood spraying onto the walls that hisses like acid where it makes contact, but it doesn’t deter the creature as it stalks forward.

In the blue of the burning core overhead, Dean sees its face, lips drawn back and teeth bared in what almost seems to be a leer. He stares it down and braces himself for the end.

Then Sam is over him, flamethrower raised and charting the creature’s face to a crisp.

It shrieks, the spines on its back rippling as it backs away, and Dean could almost cheer until his sees the blue puff as the fuel runs out. He exchanges a glance with Sam at the same moment the xenomorph seems to realise the fire’s gone. No time to lose.

The xenomorph snarls. Sams bolts back towards the first door and slams his hand onto the button to purge.

There’s a strange pause as it feels like the whole world is in a state of suspended animation, nothing moving as they wait for the reset to work, and then the light from the core flickers.

At first, it dims, blue fading to plunge them almost into absolute darkness, then it flares back to life with ten times the intensity of before. The presence of the organic matter has a curious effect as the power surges outwards from the dome overhead. Electricity crackles, forking like lightning across the material of the nest, and Dean smells it as it burns.

Below them, the ground rumbles. The xenomorph shrieks, caught up in the blast, and then Dean jumps as he feels a touch at his shoulder. It’s Sam. “Let’s go!” his brother yells.

The blast doors have all been thrown open, the overload tripping every circuit on the station, and they hear more shrieks from electrocuted xenomorphs around them as they bolt back in the direction of the elevator.

“Kevin!” Dean yells, hoping the comms battery power has left it online. An alarm is blaring again, and he can feel the ground shaking.

“Dean?” God, it’s a relief to hear his voice. “What the hell just happened?”

“We purged the reactor core,” Dean shouts back. “Threw all the main circuits on the station. We need that elevator back online ASAP.”

“ASAP? This wasn’t the plan. You haven’t exactly given me much time to work with here.”

“Just do it!”

They keep running, caught in a fight on two fronts to stay upright and evade the xenomorphs not far behind. Jaws snap close on their heels, and Sam tosses back a couple of stun grenades in the xenomorphs' direction. There's another sudden flash as they go off. He'd isn't expecting to do much harm, but he hopes it buys them time.

Just as they pass a junction one of the creatures rounds a corner, snarling, and Dean stumbles back. It doesn’t seem like the shock hurt it much. Rather, it just seems pissed.

“Hey!” Sam shouts.

There’s no fuel left in the flamethrower. That doesn’t stop Sam straight up throwing it, hurling the empty tank and weapon straight at the creature and hitting it squarely in its oversized head.

It recoils with a hiss, which Dean imagines is less actual pain and more indignation at Sam’s sheer boldness, then they’re running past it, back down the corridor from which they came. The elevator is in sight now, doors wide open from the surge.

“Kevin, hurry up!” Dean shouts as he and Sam practically trip over themselves to get inside, beginning to mash at the unresponsive buttons on the walls. He dares to glance back. The xenomorph is coming for them, and it’s not the only one.

“I’m working on it!” Kevin yells in his ear. “Hold on!”

The xenomorph is yards away. It lunges, claws outstretched, and Dean desperately throws Sam to the wall behind him. Then the doors slide shut. A black hand gets caught between them, provoking an enraged shriek from the other side, but it doesn’t stop the metal from sliding into its frame as it slices through. Acid blood seeps out, beginning to burn a hole in the doors, but it doesn’t matter. They’re already moving.

Dean breathes a sigh of relief as he pulls his brother close. The sounds of xenomorph shrieks begin to recede, and even if it’s not safety, it’s a head start. The elevator speeds them faster towards their destination up ahead, and hopefully, towards escape.


	11. Chapter 11

“Kevin!” Sam yells into the headset, feet pounding into the floor as they bolt through the elevator doors back in the direction of the nurses’ station. “We’re out! So are the xenomorphs. Hurry, we need to go.”

“Captain Mills, we’re on our way to you,” Dean relays as he switches to the external channel.

“Roger,” she copies. “I’m standing by over airlock Med-3C.”

Behind them, they hear the shrieks of the xenomorphs, vents rattling like they’re possessed as the station continues to rock. It pitches hard to one side, then the other, alarms blaring. “ _Orbital stabilisers compromised. Damage critical. Evacuate.”_

“Kevin, come on!” Sam shouts as the reach they door, bracing himself on the wall for balance. There’s still no response on the comms save for white noise. “Let’s go!” He slams the door release without even stopping to wonder why it’s unlocked, darts inside, then freezes.

Kevin is still there, positioned as ever in front of the computer. So is a pale, clammy, eight-legged creature wrapped around his face.

“Oh shit…” Dean murmurs, no more than a pace behind him.

Sam lets out a gasp. “Kevin…” He takes an instinctive step forward before Dean’s hand closes tight on his shoulder.

“It’s too late. We’ve got to go.”

Sam swallows painfully. Dean’s right. They run.

How they evade the creatures is a miracle, if it doesn’t seem that maybe even the xenomorphs are susceptible to the rapidly failing gravity as the station falls apart. One of them swipes its tail down from the vents, comes worryingly close to wrapping it around Sam, and he’s saved only by the entire station suddenly pitching hard left.

The brothers topple and end up practically on the walls, stumbling in their efforts to maintain some approximation of upright. Insect-like, the xenomorphs are far better suited to this.

The airlock’s in sight now: Med-3C.

Dean slams the release and they fall through, hearing the clang of a domed skull on metal as the door slides shut between them. “Come on!” he yells at Sam, frantically grabbing for an EVA suit in the containers mounted on the walls. If it weren’t for his experience of just hours ago, Dean would think he’s never thrown on a spacesuit so fast.

They both manage it in under a minute. “Ready!” Sam affirms, and hits the button to depressurise. They hear the hiss as the air is vacuumed out, fading rapidly to silence. The artificial gravity is supposed to switch off, but it’s barely functioning to start with as they feel themselves become weightless.

Dean grasps onto Sam and slams the release for the outer door.

It slides open smoothly, the aperture widening to reveal an inky black sky and a glowing green sun burning in the distance. The metal surfaces of the station glint in its light, and the brothers look to the spacecraft hanging in the air above them, casting a grey shadow over the airlock door. It’s a shadow that ought to be bigger.

“Jody, you’re too far away,” Dean says over the comms. “We don’t have jetpacks. We can’t make that spacewalk.”

No response. White noise crackles in his ear. “Captain Mills, bring her in closer.”

Nothing. Dean wonders if they’re out of range, or if the shape of the station is blocking the signal, or whatever other fucked-up makes-no-sense thing it could be, and wants to scream.

Sam tugs on his arm. Dean blinks, taking a deep breath as he looks down at his brother, then follows where he’s pointing.

“There’s a disembarkation platform right under her auxiliary port,” Sam says, “We can make it.”

Dean’s eyes do a rapid scan of the station’s exterior, seeing there’s a marked out service route leading straight to the EVA platform. “Alright. Go.”

He practically shoves Sam out of the door, hauling him up towards the assistance ladder running along the station’s tower, then follows close behind. They’ve made it around fifty meters when Dean glances back, eyes scanning down to the airlock hatch they’ve just departed, and his heart stops.

Black claws are extending out into the vacuum and closing around the rim of the door.

“Shit, Sam. Move!” He looks back again to his brother a few feet up ahead, and sees Sam staring off to a support rig over on their right.

“Dean, are you seeing this?” His voice is flooded with barely-contained fear.

Dean looks. Over on the aluminum rigging running between the towers, xenomorphs are crawling, their glossy heads glinting greenish-grey in the sun’s light. From the gaping hole of the wrecked docking port far below, more of them emerge like a swarm, crawling over the station’s skin.

“How is that possible!” Dean shouts, panic building in his chest. “How the _fuck_ is that possible?”

He doesn’t have answers. Just knows they need to move.

Frantic, the both of them climb higher, dragging themselves over the perpendicular turn onto the platform and falling breathlessly onto it. There’s a brief moment of weightlessness and panicked scrabbling for an anchor, before the platform’s gravity assist kicks in just enough to keep them down.

The _Torrens_ hangs overhead, a hulking mass casting the station into a deep shadow. Just as Sam had said, the round hatch door of the auxiliary port waits no more than a couple hundred meters away.

“Captain Mills!” Dean shouts into the headset. Still no response.

Behind them, more of the black shapes begin to emerge over the crest of the disembarkation platform, indifferent to the vacuum that ought to kill any living creature in seconds. They need to go. Now.

Dean eyes up the ship hovering in stationary orbit meters away, further than he’d like, but he knows they can make it. He turns to Sam. “Ready?” he says, hand grasping tight onto his brother’s.

Behind the glass visor, Sam nods. “Yeah.”

They jump.

Dean is the one to grasp the hatch door first, size granting him a longer reach, and he holds on tight while Sam slams the button to unlock. The airlock opens and the pair of them float through, not looking back before it seals tight behind them.

“Captain Mills!” Dean shouts over the radio as he pulls on the repressurisation lever. Surely they’re in range by now.

There’s no response.

The pair of them tumble to the floor as the artificial gravity kicks in, and Sam moves to pull off his helmet. A gesture from Dean halts him. “Wait.”

The older brother activates the door on the other side of the airlock and the pair of them step through to the main body of the _Torrens._ The hallways are strangely quiet. Deserted.

“Jody?” Dean tries again.

No answer.

They pause just a moment longer, then Dean gives Sam the tiniest of nods to venture cautiously forward. Their footsteps are loud, heavy boots on metal floors echoing through the narrow hallway. Dean ensures Sam stays behind him, keeping three paces ahead to scope out each step before he lets Sam take it. Twenty paces to the next doorway, Dean counts. Something’s wrong.

He reaches out a hand to hover over the door release button, holding his breath as he hesitates. Right now he should be feeling relief. Instead, there’s only dread.

May as well get it over with. Dean braces himself and slams his hand down.

There’s a hiss as the hydraulics kick in and the door slides open to reveal...nothing. It’s just the locker room, seemingly empty, but the tension hasn’t eased yet. Dean holds an arm out behind him to stay Sam while he ventures cautiously forward. One step, two…

Nothing’s there. Dean heaves a sigh of relief. “Alright, Sam-”

“Dean!” Sam sees it first a moment before Dean hears the shriek: a black figure dropping from the storage fixtures overhead. Dean stumbles back, throwing his arms out as he almost loses his balance and yells at his brother.

“Sam, run!”

They do, back down the way they came, Sam a few paces ahead as he reaches the airlock and slams open the inner door. They’re not gonna be able to shut it out. There’s no time. By the time Dean’s boots clamor over the threshold, it’s already on him.

He cries out as he goes down, feeling the weight on his back and knowing he has seconds before its claws breach the fabric of his spacesuit. He shouldn’t have run. He should have distracted it, given Sam chance to get out, but hell, where would Sam even go now?

The thought barely has chance to form before a sudden force is tugging at him and the alien both, and Dean feels himself flying through the air as Sam hits the button and the outer airlock door opens.

His world spins. Panic rushes through him as he sees the ship’s walls flit past and the vacuum of space waiting for him, and he knows it’s over. After everything, this is how it ends.

The xenomorph is pulled out ahead of him, its shrieks fading to silence as the air is sucked out around them, then Dean hurtles through the hatch and there’s only space. He’d be screaming if he hadn’t forgotten to breathe, blood chilling in a way that has nothing to do with the iciness of the vacuum, then he’s abruptly halted as something grasps hold of his arm and holds on.

Dean cranes his neck to look behind him, his field of vision partially cut off by the shape of the helmet. It’s Sam. He has an EVA cable wrapped around his ankle, pulled taut as he hangs out of the airlock with his good arm extended towards his brother. He won’t let go.

Dean glances back at the xenomorph quickly receding to a black shadow in the distance, then lifts his own arm to grab onto Sam and reel them both back in. He doesn’t realise how much he’s shaking until they hit close on the airlock again and both crumple to the floor.

Sam wrenches off his helmet, tears staining his face, then Dean pulls off his own and holds his brother close. They stay like that for several minutes, the silence broken only by their ragged breathing.

They survived. Dean can hardly believe it, but they survived,

Sam is first to pull away, sniffling and wiping his nose on the back of his hand. “What now?” he asks shakily. “What if there’s more of them?”

The thought has occurred to Dean too, but he knows their only hope of getting out of here is if there isn’t and he’s clinging to that hope. “We’ll check,” he says as assuredly as he’s able. “We have to be careful, but I think that was the last one.”

“How can you know?”

“Call it a gut feeling.” That’s a lie, but it seems to help Sam. They both stand up, climbing out of their EVA suits and Dean grimaces as he sees the claw marks in the back of his, perilously close to puncturing the inner pressurised layer. He doesn’t suppose it matters now.

“Come on, little brother,” he says, holding his hand out to Sam. Sam takes it.

Once again they venture deeper into the ship.

The control room’s a gorefest. Blood paints every surface, spattered across the screens and console so that Sam and Dean would barely be able to pilot the ship had they even known how. Officer Fitzgerald’s body is still in the pilot’s seat. A hole gapes in his forehead from the xenomorph’s jaws, hands limp at the controls. There are rough holes in the floor where it’s melted through, the spray of acidic blood suggesting Captain Mills had at least fought back. Wherever her body is - what remains of it - it isn’t here.

Beneath the spatter of crimson, a few of the screens remain live. In the centre, a green cursor blinks at them following a few lines of text:

 _Destination set: SL5-G03_  
_System: Sol_  
_Planet: Earth_  
_Journey time: 62 days_ _  
Engage autopilot? Y/N_

The brothers turn to each other. Dean’s eyes spark with a hope he almost thought he’d lost. “I think we can get home.”

For a moment, relief and hope flickers over Sam’s face, then he looks nervous. His voice drops to a whisper, as if afraid to tempt fate. “What if there are more of them on board?”

It’s what they’d both been thinking. Dean’s expression turns grim. “We’ll do one more sweep, and if the ship’s clean, we’ll get in the cryopods and leave.” He doesn't say what they’ll do if the ship isn’t clean. He has no idea.

Dean’s finger extends to hover over the keyboard and presses down on the “Y”, followed by “enter”. Immediately, they hear the sounds of thrusters engaging, engines roaring out of standby to begin the journey.

Through the blood-smeared screen, the distant shape of Sevastopol hurtling towards the gas giant comes into view. The green orb of the system’s star lies somewhere beyond, bathing the bridge in a cold, eerie light. Maybe there’s the shadowy blip of the jettisoned alien hurtling towards it, or perhaps that’s just Dean’s imagination.

He turns away. “Come on,” he says to Sam. “Let’s go.”

Their search of the ship returns nothing until they reach the maintenance levels on the lower decks. The bloody remains of Captain Mills have been dragged and dumped by one of the airlocks, almost completely disembowelled and upper body slashed to pieces. They wrap her and Garth in a tarpaulin from the cargo bay and jettison them from the boarding dock.

Sam cries silently while Dean says a few words. “Captain… Jody. Garth. We never got chance to really know you, but thank you for helping us find out what happened to mom. And for programming the autopilot so we can get home. We’re grateful you stayed and waited for us and I’m sorry it cost you so much…” He stops when he fears his voice will break.

Once they’re convinced as they’ll ever be that the _Torrens_ is free from xenomorphs, facehuggers, or eggs, the brothers shower and pull on fresh clothes from the locker room before returning to the cryo bunks. The room isn’t as bloodstained as the bridge, but there are signs of a struggle.

Two of the hypersleep chambers are shattered. One seems to have fallen victim to automatic gunfire. On the second, the glass is punched clean through, cracks spreading outwards from a hole in the signature shape of a xenomorph’s second set of jaws.

Blinking red error lights on four of the others tell Dean they won’t work without repairs. From the exposed wires visible beneath a clawed-through circuit cover, he isn’t optimistic.

One’s left intact. It’s only meant for one person, but Sam’s small: they’ll fit.

Dean hits the release button and stands back to allow Sam to climb into the opening chamber first. Sam doesn’t move, just a flit of his eyes telling Dean, “You go. It’ll be easier for me to go next.” Of course. Makes sense.

A groan slips past Dean’s teeth as he eases himself in, his aching body protesting as all his bruises and sprains flare up once again. The soft memory foam of the bay is welcoming, moulding gently to his body as it helps ease the pain. He settles part way down, then shuffles as much as possible up against the chamber’s right wall to allow Sam to join him.

His brother clambers in, all gangly limbs and human warmth as he takes up the remaining space and curls himself against Dean’s side. There’s enough room to allow Dean to wrap an arm around him as Sam settles down, his cheek to Dean’s chest, hair tickling his brother’s chin. He feels alive. A pang shoots through Dean as he realises they’re the only two left who are.

With a gentle hiss, the chamber hood slides closed above them and snugly envelops them both. Dean’s heart beats steadily beneath Sam’s ear. Their breathing mingles, falling into sync as the cryosleep process begins to slow their metabolisms.

It’s impossible to tell which of them goes first. From somewhere far away, an almost forgotten voice whispers, “ _I miss you so much, my angels. I’m so sorry for all the time I missed, and the time we’ll never get to spend together. No matter what happens, know that I am so, so proud of you and will always love you.”_

Entangled in each other’s arms, they sleep.

_-fin_

__

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all of you who have read to the end, and I hope you've enjoyed the story. While I have included an epilogue, if you prefer the "happier" version of the ending and would like to believe in the best possible outcome, I would recommend that you stop reading here.


	12. Epilogue

_Starship USS Croatoan, Captain's log, September 28th 2132. Recovery and salvage mission._

_The USS Torrens has been retrieved. Genetic material of the creature has been found on the bridge and is currently undergoing testing for viability. A specimen, henceforth referred to as a "facehugger", has been recovered for examination._

_No sign of the crew. Missing, presumed dead on board Sevastopol station._

_Two souls found in cryosleep._

Captain Azazel pauses as he considers his next words, lowering the recorder from his lips. He takes a moment to wonder how much detail Weyland-Yutani really need on record. Then he smiles.

_Life support failure. No survivors._

He puts down the recording device, then crosses back to the bodies retrieved from the _Torrens_ , still as they'd been when they were brought on board. They haven't even been removed from the chamber, curled into each other in a cryosleep pod only meant for one.

They're just boys, the captain muses, the oldest eighteen at most. If he were more prone to sentiment, he'd probably feel sympathy. Instead, he just smiles darkly again as he turns and exits the morgue, leaving the brothers to their peace.


End file.
